The Christmas Gift
by Mr. Page
Summary: The Holidays are approaching and Hamton wants to get something special for Fifi. But what can he possibly give her that shows how much he cares, and how far will Hamton go to do it?
1. Cold and Warmth

**Hello, everyone!**

 **I first started writing this story back in** **July of 2014** **and it's time that I posted it to the public! I put as much of my knowledge of creative writing into this work as I could: plot, characters, themes, symbols, dialogue, and humor. In my hopes of becoming an author, as well as my deep love of cartoons and other creative works, I present to you a story that I hope you enjoy. No matter what December holiday you celebrate, this is a story for any and all.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

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 **The Christmas Gift**

 **A** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **fanfiction**

 **by**

 **Mr. Page**

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 **Chapter 1**

 _Cold and Warmth_

~ _Monday - Dec. 1_ _st_ ~

Hamton J. Pig began his morning the same way he had for years: with a simple yet _very_ filling breakfast.

Sitting alone at his kitchen table, he devoured his third toaster pastry, took the last bite of his extra-large red apple, and downed his second tall glass of orange juice.

Feeling adequately full, Hamton hurried to the kitchen sink and quickly scrubbed, dried, and stored away the single dish and glass. Back at the table, he vigorously repeated the process until the tabletop glimmered like a fine diamond. Smiling at his pudgy reflection in the polished wood, he then checked the chair and floor to be doubly sure they were clear of crumbs. Satisfied, Hamton threw the dish rag back to the sink where it landed neatly on the tap, then rushed off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Dressed in a crisp, clean pair of his favorite blue overalls, Hamton pulled a stocking hat down over his bald head and zipped on his new winter coat (the old one had become too small). Fully dressed and ready to go, he walked to the front door, pulled it open, and was greeted by a fresh, cold burst of morning air. Bearing the chill, he stood there in his doorway, amazed at the sight before him.

December had arrived in flying colors — those being mostly white. The outer neighborhoods of Acme Acres were coated with at least four inches of glistening snow. It lay gently atop the slanting roofs, the picket fences and mailboxes, the sidewalks and iron lampposts. White smoke was billowing out from the chimneys and drifting on a chilly breeze into a large, white, overcast sky.

Hamton was so drawn to the picturesque winter display that he didn't look away until the biting chill in both his exposed hands became too much for him to bear.

Wincing at the pain, Hamton quickly stepped outside onto his snowy doormat, dug through his pockets for his house key, and locked the knob and deadbolt. He jiggled the door's ice-cold handle, which did not move, then immediately stuffed the key and his two bare hands into his coat pockets, then he turned and set off down his house's walkway to the sidewalk. He passed a snowplow pushing snow off the street and headed on towards the city, its buildings and skyscrapers standing tall in the white distance.

Despite the fact that he wore no shoes, Hamton and his bare pig's feet had no complaints walking down the snow-covered sidewalk. Some may raise an eyebrow to this, but Hamton felt perfectly content.

It wasn't that unusual, really; he was a Toon, after all.

"Now if only my hands weren't as sensitive," Hamton muttered, tightening them in his coat pockets.

Though it was quite cold, there was, at least, no icy wind. Hamton was thankful for it; it was tiring enough to walk so far to get to school, he didn't need a freezing gust nipping at his face.

There were very few people out walking this morning. Most of the cartoon adults, who very few people ever see, had already left for work in their cars, as indicated by the tire tracks leading out from their drives and onto the imprinted snowy street. Every now and then Hamton saw a kid or teenager heading off to school like he was, but they normally kept at such a distance that they practically blended with the background.

When Hamton reached the midpoint between his neighborhood and the central city borders, he crossed by the entrance of the Acme Forest and took the moment to stop and catch his breath. He took off his winter hat to wipe his brow of the little sweat he gained while walking when, at that moment, he spotted two teenagers his age walking out from the forest clearing. They were holding hands and were dressed in blue and pink winter coats that matched their fur. Their tall, long ears made them instantly recognizable as rabbits, one of whom had the tips of her ears tied with matching purple ribbons.

"Morning, Hamton," the two called out.

"Hey, Buster," Hamton greeted. "Hey, Babs."

He pulled his hat back on as his friends approached. They, like Hamton, wore no shoes. Though, truthfully, no shoe probably would _ever_ fit over their large rabbit feet.

"Had a good Thanksgiving?" Buster asked.

"Oh, yeah," said Hamton, giving his pig belly a pat. "My mom made quite the feast."

"Same here," said Babs, giving her much slimmer belly a pat. "Don't let the look fool you, Hamton. I chowed down." She demonstrated this by taking a huge bite out of the cold air, nearly all her white teeth exposed.

"She's not kidding," Buster said with a smirk. "I had to fight her away from that second pumpkin pie I made."

Babs rolled her eyes at this, but also managed to crack a smile.

"So," said Hamton, "ultimately, your guys' first Thanksgiving together was a success?"

"Mostly," Buster answered, scratching the back of his head uncomfortably. "See, Babs' dad was a little . . . uh, what's the word?" Buster paused and looked as though he were remembering something particularly unpleasant. He gave a slight shiver, and Hamton doubted it was due to the cold.

"Ah, come on, Buster," said Babs encouragingly. "My dad liked you. He told me so before we left. I know he can look mean, but he's just a serious guy. He's always been like that."

"Does he always glare when he meets new people, too?" asked Buster, an eyebrow raised.

"Of course he doesn't. It's just when his little girl is around boys."

"Figures. Anyway," Buster turned back to Hamton, "besides a few heavy glares, everything went pretty nice. Babs' dad sat watching football most of the time, so we didn't have to talk very much, except for a couple times at dinner. Other than that, I couldn't have asked for better carrot cobbler, _or_ better company." He then leaned in on his girlfriend, his fuzzy white cheek nuzzling hers.

Hamton grinned at the cute sight.

"Buster?" said Babs affectionately.

"Yeah, Babsy?" he asked tenderly, staring into her eyes.

"We're going to be late for school if you don't get off me."

The romantic music, if there had been any, warbled to a flat stop.

Slightly put out by this blunt response, Buster removed his cheek from Babs', but she kept her hand interlocked with his.

"Come on, boys," said Babs. "Let's get a move on." And with that, she led them across the border between the field and city, and over onto the first block.

Snow-covered cars and the morning semi-trucks were driving here and there, the streets already clear of last night's snowfall. Most of the buildings had frost crawling up their walls and windows. The clock tower in the distance stood tall and clear, its pointed roof capped with white fluff and its round face reading 7:20. Other than the addition of snow, ice, and slippery spots on the sidewalk, however, nothing was particularly new in the city of Acme Acres.

Buster and Babs were still holding each other's hands, one gloved and one pink. Neither were talking; both of them seemed content to observe the city in its new wintery clothes while savoring each other's grip.

The sight of the young couple made Hamton feel warm. Buster and Babs' relationship had grown quite well since the Christmas Pageant a year ago. They had no problem making it clear to anyone that they were going steady, even though their feelings for each other had been obvious since ' _The Looney Beginning_.'

At this thought, Hamton let out a deep breath that turned to vapor on the cold air. It was still hard to believe it had been over a year since _Tiny Toon Adventures_ officially ended. . . .

After crossing the first city block, Hamton, Buster, and Babs arrived outside a brick coffeehouse right as its frosted doors opened with a light bell jingle. Out stepped two more familiar faces, each with a bill for a mouth.

"—why we have to get here _this_ early, Shirls!" Plucky complained, pulling his green, feathered arm through a coat sleeve. "And on a Monday, no less!"

"Ah, come on, Plucky," said Shirley, pulling her long blonde hair out from inside her coat. "Like, morning tea does wonders for your chakras. And a veggie cheese strudel never hurts, either," she added with a smirk. "Besides, you passed up on our morning yoga and you still won't give meditation a try. So, like, what else could we have done?"

"Oh, I don't know," Plucky said, rolling his eyes. "How about stay in bed and wake up at a normal time, like _normal_ people?"

Babs let out a hard laugh. "And since when have _you_ ever been normal?"

Plucky and Shirley shot their heads in Babs' direction.

"Oh, hey, guys, and gal," said Plucky, zipping up his coat. "You all had a good turkey day?"

"Yep. Stuffed just like a turkey," said Buster. "And you two?"

"Same here," Plucky replied. "Or, at least, _I_ did. Shirley chose to chow down on turkey feed rather than actual turkey."

Hamton, Babs, and Buster blinked incomprehensively.

Shirley shot Plucky an annoyed glare. "I had a perfectly filling Thanksgiving, like, thank you very much, Plucky. I just didn't eat any turkey. I'm a lacto vegetarian. I've been, like, telling you since last month, and long before that, before you and I became, you know, a thing?" She emphasized this last bit by crossing her white index and middle finger together.

Plucky blushed, practically glowing with all the surrounding snow.

"So . . . speaking of your guys' relationship," said Babs, looking between the green duck and the white loon with equal interest and concern. "You two doing okay?"

Shirley's annoyed look vanished at once. "Oh, yeah. Like, no probla-mo. Me and Plucky just got done savoring some morning tea."

"Yeah. . . . Savoring. . . ." said Plucky, at what was obviously an imprecise description to his tastes. Very quietly, Hamton heard him mutter, "I wouldn't have minded hot chocolate, though, or at least — I mean, YUM! That Ginseng or Earl Green was simply, uh, uplifting! Let's come again, Shirls!" he added swiftly, smilingly hugely and nervously at the sharp look his girlfriend shot him.

But again, Shirley's annoyance melted to a half-smile and she rolled her eyes, taking Plucky's hand in hers. "Come on, everyone. Like, school's not gonna wait up for us."

"Wouldn't it be great if it would, though?" Plucky asked fondly as they turned and made their way down the sidewalk.

Hamton, his cold hands still stuffed in his pockets, glanced quietly to his friends, who were chatting up about what they did over break.

Plucky and Shirley's behavior outside the coffeehouse wasn't very different from what he'd seen several times since last fall. Ever since Plucky and Shirley started going steady, Hamton and the others have had more than an earful of their bickering. Granted, Plucky and Shirley never shouted much — they got along quite well most days — but the two hardly ever lost the chance to contradict each other on a disagreement, whether it was Plucky wanting to play video games all night or Shirley wanting to teach him how to read tarot cards. Really, personal tastes in tea were just _one_ of their minor squabbles.

"So," said Plucky, now looking rather smug, "who's excited for the school talent show this afternoon?"

"You, apparently," said Buster, noting Plucky's expression.

"Yeah, why so smug?" asked Babs, an eyebrow raised.

Sounding as though he had hoped someone would ask this question, Plucky replied, "I'm gonna blow away the competition with my natural born talent."

 _I'll be sure to alert Dorothy and Todo_ , Hamton thought, not having the courage to say this joke aloud.

The others merely rolled their eyes; Shirley did it with a kind smile in respect for her crush's feelings.

"Oh, yeah, Plucky?" said Babs with a challenging tone. "How do you plan to wow the judges this year? Another dance routine, by any chance?"

Plucky glared as his friends all repressed stifled laughter. "No," he said stiffly. "I'm smart enough not to try that _three_ years in a row. This time, I'm going to win the show the same way _every_ winner does it."

"OOH!" Babs said in mock excitement. "Are you gonna get down on your hands and knees and beg?"

Plucky's face hardened. "No."

Shirley laughed at her gal pal's quick wit. "Like, totally rude, Babs!"

Hamton, too, couldn't help cracking a guilty grin.

"Uh, Plucky?" asked Buster, sounding worried. "You're not going to dress up as a devil and drink gas—"

"NO!" said Plucky abruptly, catching the attention of a few passersby on the sidewalk. "No way! Jeez, I'm not _that_ desperate. I'm just going to perform as many talents as possible in the time allowed. I mean, it's a talent show, therefore the more talent shown, the greater your chances of winning. It's makes perfect sense. Plus —" He held his head high and proud, " — with _my_ many expertise, it'll be a cinch."

"And will probably require a cast and eleven stitches," Babs muttered, to which she, Buster, Hamton, and Shirley laughed quietly.

"What's so funny?" asked Plucky, an eyebrow raised.

"Nothing!" said Babs innocently. And when Plucky eyed her suspiciously, she added. "Private joke."

As Hamton and his friends traveled onward, they glimpsed several city workers decorating their frosted shop windows and doors with wreaths and silver garland. Though still many days away, the first signs of the Holidays were already starting to show.

The five young Toons observed these sightings with quiet appreciation, then turned on the block where, directly in front, stood Acme Looniversity. The long brick outer walls wound around the large school, coming to a halt at the entrance that formed a tall stone arch. Through this large opening, a freshly shoveled walkway (courtesy of Pete Puma, the school janitor) led to the school's front doors. Towering over this walkway, were two large, stone statues of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, each dressed in graduation robes with mortar boards atop their heads. And, standing tall for all to see, was the iconic clock tower with the Warner Brothers logo stamped onto its front, right behind the clock's face.

As though Hamton and his friends' arrival served as a cue, the clock face opened like the door to a coo-coo clock. And, very fittingly, out popped Gogo Dodo: green, a tiny pink umbrella sticking out from the crown of his head, and a pair of earmuffs over his nonexistent ears.

"Coo-coo, coo-coo," Gogo cried. "If you don't know today's December 1st, you're coo-coo!" He ducked back into the tower, but not before stretching his head out the door, adding, "and should probably go buy yourself a calendar." With all said that needed to be said, he grabbed the clock face and slammed it closed.

Back down on the ground level, students were bustling under the arch and towards the school entrance, all dressed in coats, hats, gloves, and boots, carrying textbooks under their arms. Amongst the many background characters were some familiar Toons. Mary Melody and Sneezer, the latter inhaling some nasal spray. Little Beeper was being chased by Calamity Coyote who, in turn, was being chased by Elmyra Duff, her white mittened hands reaching out.

"Come back, cute fluffy, doggie-woggie and fast birdy-turdie," said the sappy-toned, animal hording girl. "I just want to love you and hug you both until your heads pop off! Don't worry, I can sew them back on!"

At these words, the coyote and road runner ran pell-mell into the school, the manic girl just inches from their tails.

The crowd of students began to thin, and at the end of the group, all alone and without a coat on, came Furrball, carrying his notebooks under his thin, blue-furred arms.

The clock tower now read 7:50.

"You think Fifi's already here?" asked Hamton, who had been glancing for the sixth member of their group ever since they passed the Acme City Dump.

"She was probably just running a little late," said Babs without worry. "She'll be mentally preparing herself for —"

 **VROOMMMM!**

From out of nowhere, a solid gold, mile-long limousine shot beside Hamton and his friends. The snow on the street flew up into the air like powdered sugar. Babs was nearly knocked off her pink rabbit feet, but was, thankfully, caught by Buster. Hamton and Plucky, however, spun around dizzily and fell to the ground, coated in cold white. Shirley, meanwhile, was hovering in midair with her legs crossed and was free of snow.

"What?" she asked to her friends' confused looks. "I, like, sensed that would happen. You know, clairvoyant and all that mumbo-jumbo?" She touched back down onto the sidewalk and helped Plucky and Hamton get back onto their feet. "Anyway, I'm, like, totally sorry, but you guys would've been too heavy for me to carry."

The gold limo had squeezed through the school archway, its sparkling hood resting at the stone steps so that it blocked half the entrance. The limo's passenger door — conveniently located right where Hamton and his friends were — opened up.

Out stepped Montana Max: the greediest, meanest, most buck-toothed kid in all of Acme Acres.

"Move it or lose it, barn yard!" he snapped in his loud, obnoxious voice. "And don't even think of touching my new ride!"

Buster, Babs, Hamton, and Shirley all gave Monty dirty looks. Plucky's sight, however, fell fixedly on the gold limo. His eyes shot into his head and came out as neon dollar signs. He was drooling with desire.

Monty, who noticed Plucky's avarice gaze, growled, "Don't get any bright ideas, swamp rat! This vehicle's worth more than your life!"

"Oh, sure, _very_ nice ride, Monty," sneered Babs, her arms crossed and her face filled with loathing. "What'd you do to get it? Sell a hundred orphans to factories?"

"Nope," Monty replied, smirking. "Unlike you losers, _I_ can afford the best. You see this coat here?" He tugged on the collar of the large, expensive-looking fur coat he was wearing. "Authentic endangered snow leopard stitched together with solid gold thread. More than you peasants can _ever_ hope to have. _Grovely_!" he shouted to the air.

Out from the limo's open door stepped a tall, tuxedoed butler. His face was quite complacent, as though he had grown used to obeying stressful and outrageous demands.

"Yes, Master Monty?" he asked in a drawling tone.

"Take my new ride home and fill it with money bags!" ordered Monty. "I want to go flaunt my wealth to the Acme Homeless Shelter after school."

"Yes, sir," the butler replied simply, though with somewhat of a sigh. He ducked back in and closed the door, which alone was worth half a billion dollars (as indicted by the price tag still on it). A few seconds later, the limo backed up at an incredible speed and disappeared around the snowy block in one bright, golden glimmer.

"Out of the way, fatty!" shouted Monty, shoving Hamton aside as he walked past him. "First Class coming through!"

Hamton nearly stumbled over backwards, but was caught by Shirley who helped steady him.

"Like, totally rude, Monty!" she shouted at the trailing fur coat.

"Who asked you, you Miss Cleo rip-off?" he retorted, then continued on, strutting towards the school, his head held high.

"Hmph!" Babs snorted. "First Class? _Him_? What are we then? The Grand Rulers of the Universe? Just look at that buck-toothed snob!"

"No thanks," said Plucky dreamily, his eyes still goggling in the direction where the golden limo drove away. "I'm busy. Leave a message after the beep."

Growling, Babs slammed her fist down atop Plucky's head, from which a loud BEEP was heard. He collapsed onto the sidewalk, little gold stars circling around his cranium.

"Babs!" Shirley exclaimed in alarm, who, with Hamton, helped Plucky up. "Like, control!"

"Sorry, Shirley," said Babs, looking suddenly guilty.

After his eyes stopped spinning in their sockets, Plucky regained control of his senses and griped, "Babs! What's your deal? Can't a guy stop and admire something gorgeous!"

Shirley shot Plucky an annoyed glare. "Maybe I _should_ let Babs smack you more often."

"Oh, come on, Shirls," whined Plucky. "You know that limo's nowhere as beautiful as you."

"Like, please don't flirt, Plucky," Shirley sighed, shaking her head.

Hamton looked in the direction of the school. Miraculously, nobody had been flattened by the limo, nor had the archway been in any way damaged. All that remained was the hot, black skid marks burnt into the snow, stretching all the way to the bottom step of the school doors.

Hamton was just about to make his way through the arch when, under his hat, his flabby pig ears twitched. He and his friends all heard something from behind.

It was humming. Very beautiful humming.

They turned around, and Hamton's heart seemed to croon inside his chest. There, walking down the sidewalk with her eyes closed was the sixth member of their group: Fifi La Fume.

The purple and white skunk looked absolutely tranquil: her soft fur, her pink bow at the side of her periwinkle hair, her huge fluffy tail bouncing as she walked, and her hands folded gently around the ends of her white scarf as she hummed, all without seeing where she was going.

"Wow," said Buster, impressed. "Fifi's really gotten good at trusting her sense of direction."

"Nah," said Shirley. "She's just letting the music lead her. You don't need eyes for that. I mean, _I_ get around with my eyes closed all the time."

"Still," Babs said, "it's impressive."

" _Very_ impressive," said Hamton, mesmerized as Fifi passed by.

The five young Toons followed Fifi under the school arch, the skid marks from Monty's limo still dark and warm. Still with her eyes closed and having no idea that her friends were walking behind her, Fifi's humming grew more profound as the song entered what sounded like a crescendo. And just as she was about to take her first step up the stone stairs, she made a kind of pirouette, like a ballerina, and began walking, instead, to the eastern side of the school, right towards a large snow bank.

Babs raised her hand and was about to shout Fifi a warning, but Hamton, acting purely on instinct, ran up to Fifi, took his hands out from his pockets and, unable to breathe, he placed his hands on Fifi's soft shoulders and turned her around, back in the direction of the walkway. She had not opened her eyes nor stopped humming, apparently too lost in a fabulous daydream to notice anything.

Being so close to her, Hamton felt a weird chilling tickle run up his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. At the same time, however, his whole body seemed to grow warm as he walked beside Fifi, taking in every feature of her beautiful face.

Hamton didn't even care that his hands were freezing, but after giving Fifi another ninety degree turn which put her back on track for the school stairs, he winced at the profound numbness now afflicting his fingers. He stuffed them back into his coat pockets and watched Fifi walk up to the front doors.

Disregarding the dull sting in both his hands, Hamton gave a quiet, delightful sigh. He had rarely ever been _that_ close to Fifi.

A white gloved hand landed on Hamton's shoulder, making him jump.

"Nice job, Hamton," Buster complimented.

"Yeah," said Babs kindly. "Very gentlemanly."

"Like, totally good karma," said Shirley.

Plucky, however, gave a light snort. "I don't know. It might've been good to see her wake abruptly."

Scowling, Shirley elbowed him in the side. Plucky's eyes screwed up with pain and he fought to keep himself from shouting, the way his bill clambered shut and his cheeks bulged. Hamton was thankful for Shirley's action, because something like an angry dog seemed to growl from inside his brain at Plucky's remark.

"Ow. . ." Plucky muttered, rubbing the side of his arm. "What?" he retorted irritably. "I didn't say I wanted Fifi to get hurt! I just thought it'd be a fitting way for her to learn not to walk with her eyes closed!" He looked back at the school doors that had just closed shut. "What's she doing, anyway?"

"She's, like, practicing for the school talent show," Shirley answered. "She's been singing that tune for weeks now and I can sense her aura is almost committed to it. That song really speaks a lot to her."

"But couldn't she practice it with her eyes _open_?" asked Plucky.

"It's like Shirley said," Buster reminded, "you don't need to see to let music guide you. You just need faith and skill."

"And Hamton to put you back on track," Plucky added dryly.

They moved on up the stairs and walked into the warm school entryway. The faint smell of cleaning fluid still lingered on the air from Thanksgiving break. Students were gathered up and down the halls at their open lockers, chatting with friends, stowing away coats and grabbing school books. Most, however, had stopped whatever they were doing and looked up in the direction of the front doors, where Fifi continued to hum and dance on the spot, her eyes still closed.

Nobody was speaking, which didn't matter because Hamton wasn't listening. He was totally engrossed by the breathtaking movements of grace and elegance before him. His brain became suddenly weightless and the entire school and its students seemed to vanish, all except for Fifi who turned slowly, blind to everything except her song and the effect it had upon her. It was hard to say who was more hypnotized.

Fifi hummed two final, quick notes, and at that moment Hamton snapped out of his self-induced daydream. The effect was abrupt but delightful, for Fifi finally opened her violet eyes and beamed at the sight of her friends.

"Ah! Bonjour, everyone!" she said happily in her iconic French accent.

"Nice tune, Fifi," Babs complimented. "Plan on breaking it down at the talent show?"

"Oh, maybe just a heart or two," Fifi replied, smirking sweetly. "Zhough I do hope to give a good performance none ze less."

The six of them moved together down the hall towards their lockers. As they did, Fifi let out a heartfelt sigh. "Ahh. . . Ze first snowfall of ze season was beautiful, no? Clean, comfortable, carefree in its decent upon our homes. A gentle powder, gracing Acme Acres with ze first of Winter's blessing."

Hamton didn't know whether these words were rehearsed, on the spot, or even original, but to him, and in Fifi's voice, it was sheer poetry.

Apparently Hamton wasn't the only one who had an opinion of this, because Plucky said, "Wow. Did you learn that in _Dr. Cheesy's Book of Cheesy Similes and Metaphors_?"

Hamton seriously thought of elbowing Plucky, but Shirley, once again, beat him to the punch with one of her own — or, rather just a flick at Plucky's temple.

"OW!"

"Like, rude, Plucky," Shirley said with annoyance.

"Seriously!" retorted Babs. "You'd think after being punched two times this morning, some sense would've got knocked into your head!"

"Kind of hard, seeing as my head is what keeps getting knocked!" Plucky said irritably, rubbing his green-feathered temple. "You're all lucky I'm a Toon or I swear I'd have brain damage by now!"

The six friends reached their lockers and deposited their winter coats and other accessories. They were all wearing their usual attire: Buster with his long-sleeved red shirt; Babs with her pale yellow sweater and smooth pink skirt; Plucky with his white tank top; Shirley with her pink hooded sweatshirt, her large pink bow in her blonde hair; and lastly Fifi, who, beside her pink bow, didn't wear anything.

There was nothing unusual about this, Hamton and everyone else knew. Fifi was a Toon and was hardly the first to be donned with only a fur coat. For anyone who disagrees, just look at Bugs Bunny, or Foghorn Leghorn, or Pepe Le Pew.

The crowds of students in the hall started to thin, but Hamton barely noticed. At the moment, as he sorted through his locker, he lost himself in the memory of how he guided Fifi towards the school, remembering how soft her shoulders were against his bare hands. . . .

In the time Hamton thought this, he could no longer hear his friends standing beside him, meaning that they must've already walked off to the first class of the day. Hurrying, Hamton grabbed his notebook with a pen in between the spiral rings and closed his locker shut.

He was only partly right in thinking his friends had left; most of them had, but Fifi was still there, hanging up her scarf and grabbing a notebook which she placed to rest on her hip. Closing her locker, she started to hum her little song again.

Hamton's feet seemed to carry him automatically so that he was at Fifi's side as they started down the hall. His throat feeling very tight at being this close to her, Hamton cleared it and forced himself to say, "Uh . . . very nice song, Fifi."

Fifi stopped humming and opened her eyes. Something like a warm wave coursed through Hamton's chest and clashed with the cold nervousness he felt.

"Ah, merci," said Fifi, smiling. "I do hope you and ze others will enjoy ze full version at ze talent show. I have been practicing for two months now. Mind you, zhough, ze song will be sung entirely in French."

"That's bound to make it even more beautiful," said Hamton. "I mean . . . if it's _you_ singing, who wouldn't like it?"

Fifi smiled at Hamton's kind comment, then resumed humming as she made her way to class with her eyes closed, all with little to no effort and completely unaware that Hamton's cheeks had gone red.

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 **As always, all comments, positive or negative, are welcome. This is the first chapter of approximately 45 I have written. I hope you enjoy all that's to come.**


	2. The Talent Show

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 _The Talent Show_

~ _Monday - Dec. 1_ _st_ ~

On the outside, Acme Looniversity probably resembles what anyone would expect of a school. But if the tall stone statues of two famous cartoon characters weren't enough, any student who walked through the front doors would paint a vastly different picture of anyone's absurd idea of common education. The truth was that Acme Loo, being a school for Toons, was as far removed from the "common" school curriculum as one could imagine.

While some schools have chemistry classes, Acme Loo has Exploding Cakes. Most schools discourage dangerous stunts, and wisely so, but when you're a cartoon character and your main purpose (or at least one of them) is to administer laughter and humorous gags, you can't be afraid of getting your head pounded — quite literally — flat.

In a general summary, at Acme Loo, normality is discouraged and zany, outright free-thinking lunacy is something to smile at. After all, when you're a Toon, what's better than a good laugh?

However, that isn't to say the teachers of Acme Loo don't take education seriously. Quite the contrary: A Toon needs to be well-practiced and finely-tuned before they're ready to take on the world as successful cartoon adults. Plus, there's college to look forward to — actual, real, not-so-much-nonsense college. Toons may have the advantage of occasionally defying reality, but when it comes to cartoons that talk about life — or, as the kids these days call them, "Slice of Life" — a Toon has to know when to laugh and when to be serious. And seeing as _Tiny Toon Adventures_ has been off the air for more than a year now, Hamton and his friends were living as real lives as one could imagine for a Toon: occasionally crazy, but, at the same time, welcomingly normal.

Thus, the morning classes of Acme Loo resumed right where they left off before Thanksgiving break. Some lessons, such as Outwitting with Prof. Road Runner or Wisecracks with Principal Bugs Bunny, proved intriguing to most students.

Outwitting was always a tad awkward due to Prof. Road Runner's inability to speak anything other than "Meep ", but nonetheless, his class was entertaining as well as enlightening. Most days Hamton and the class analyzed videos of cartoon characters getting the better on their villainous rivals, whether it was using verbal tactics to outsmart them or simply tricking them into walking off cliffs.

Wisecracks was a favorite to many — not only because Bugs Bunny was the teacher, but because the students often got to practice on each other: throwing mild insults and thinking up smart comebacks.

Buster, Babs, and Plucky were especially good at Wisecracks. Fifi and Shirley were all right, and Hamton was, in polite terms, okay. Compared to his friends, he never quite got outstanding results due to his fear that he might accidently hurt someone's feelings. Whenever he practiced Wisecracks with Fifi, however, he not only had trouble thinking up anything witty, but was rendered incapable of speaking all together, except for short stutters like, "Uh...um...y-yeah, you the same."

It was hard to say what was more embarrassing for Hamton: Fifi's puzzled look or how everyone else stared at him.

Nevertheless, Wisecracks was still pretty fun. Hamton especially liked the comedy skits his friends put on. Some days it was almost like being back on _Tiny Toons_.

As with every school, however, some classes proved to be remarkably dull.

Calculations with Prof. Granny was as difficult as any math class, where the only thing some students ever counted were Zs. That is, until Granny smacked their desks with an ACME Indestructible Yardstick. (She went through these a lot and was currently out).

Another boring hour and fifteen minutes was Self-Centerism with Prof. Daffy Duck, though the monotony of _this_ class was mostly due to the status quo Daffy had obtained over his long career of being constantly outshone (and from being a total blowhard). Plucky, though, proved to be quite attentive to his mentor (both out of respect and for his own reasonable talent with the subject). But Plucky was nowhere _near_ as gifted with Self-Centerism as Montana Max, whose greedy, self-absorbed nature was so nefarious, one often wondered why Monty hadn't yet married himself.

The other classes all had mixed feelings from the students, depending on their interests. Prof. Pepe Le Pew taught lovey-dovey French as well as Smellogy, though not until the Spring Semester when all the windows could be thrown open (thank goodness). Prof. Elmer J. Fudd taught Cartoon Logic, which was a balance of calculations and fascinating side-effects and theories found in animation. Last but not least, Prof. Foghorn Leghorn taught Hound Teasing, which was as basic as picking up a stick and playing fetch when, in actuality, there was no stick.

When the bell rang for Lunch, it was a like a breath of fresh air for the students, who had practically drowned in the knowledge being pushed upon them.

Hamton, as always, was the first one to arrive in the cafeteria, having zipped straight out of Calculations and leaving a cloud of smoke in his absence.

He was halfway through eating his lunch of soup, sandwich, and salad by the time Buster, Babs, Plucky, Shirley, and Fifi joined him at the table. After a few mouthfuls, they began to discuss a question that had come up in Calculations.

"I still don't understand how anvils can adjust their speed while falling," Plucky said while chewing a bite of sandwich. "The way they follow _me_ around, you'd think they know how to fly!"

"Well, I'm just guessing here," said Buster, "but I think part of it involves Cartoon Logic, being that anvils adjust depending on context or when the situation demands it. But who knows?" he shrugged, taking a sip from his can of carrot juice. "We don't normally question things like why some anvils fall faster and others stay airborne. A lot of animation is just like that: if there's an anvil's falling, it's gotta land on _somebody's_ head."

"Yeah, Plucky," said Babs, "they just happen to land on _your_ head more than anyone else's."

Plucky snorted. "Yeah, well, at least _I_ can handle it when an anvil falls. _You'd_ all probably spend time in the hospital, and I ain't talking about the Five-Second Recovery Ward down in the Nurse's Office."

A couple more moments went by where the group took bites and Hamton, sipping from his mini milk carton, glanced around at the other students. Calamity Coyote was savoring spoonfuls of Imitation Road Runner soup. Furrball, who had finished his lunch already, was seated next to Calamity and seemed to be asking around the table if anyone was planning to toss out any food.

Over in the most polished corner of the cafeteria, where a large sleek window gave a clear view of the snow-covered grounds, the scent of five star cooking wafted around the room. Montana Max was eating Turkey alaKing on a solid gold platter with silverware made out of fine 18th century silver. He sipped from a crystal goblet of cold, sparkling children's tears. After a satisfying gulp, he snapped his fingers in the air expectantly. Grovely handed him a one-hundred dollar bill, which Monty used as a napkin before holding it to the candelabra and watching it burn.

Occasionally, Monty would look around, hoping to catch someone staring jealously at his wealth, because if there was one thing Montana Max loved more than money, it was flaunting his money and watching other people squirm, knowing they will never have as much as he did. But most of the school was used to this by now, and the only person looking in his direction today was Elmyra, waving and giggling.

Annoyed, Monty went back to his high-class dish, biting his fork in half and chewing it in frustration.

"So," said Hamton, putting down his milk carton, "what are you guys planning for the talent show? I know what Plucky and Fifi are doing, but what about you guys?" he asked to Buster, Babs, and Shirley.

"Oh, you know me, Hamton," said Babs. She put her fork down in her salad, then stood up from her seat and spun around. For a moment, she resembled a miniature pink twister, not that different from Dizzy Devil (minus the flecks of spit and destruction). When Babs slowed to a stop, she was dressed in a leather jacket and greasy blue jeans, bearing a face which belonged to someone looking for a good fight.

She pounded her fist into her palm. "An actress' gotta do what an actress' gotta do," she said in a gruff, manly tone.

Hamton heard a reasonable bit of applause around the cafeteria. Babs gave the clapping crowd a curtsy, which looked quite funny in her gangster get-up. Then she spun around again and stopped, back in her yellow sweater and purple skirt.

"I've got about forty new impressions to show-off," she said. "I'm still unsure which would be best, though. We're only allowed five minutes each. I'm thinking of maybe doing a cross between Billy Joel and Ben Stein."

Buster smirked. "Yeah, 'cause everyone loves a monotone business man with a healthy obsession for pianos. No offence, Babsy," he added quickly, "or to Mr. Joel or Stein."

"Eh, none taken." She hopped back down into her seat and took a bite out of her carrot sandwich. "I still don't understand why you didn't want to enter, though, Buster. We would've made an awesome act."

"I told you, Babsy, I don't feel like it this year," Buster said with a sigh. "I mean . . . last year wasn't my best show. . . ."

Babs cringed slightly. "Yeah, good point."

Hamton, too, remembered the day well and agreed with Buster's decision not to enter. Never could Hamton have imagined that a unicycle, an elephant, and a ship anchor could do what they all did when put through a large hoop hanging 30 feet off the ground. Montana Max had laughed so hard at the disastrous outcome, he wound up in the Acme Hospital's ER.

"Don't feel bad, Buster," said Plucky. "Not everyone is destined for the stage like me."

Everyone rolled their eyes.

"What about you, Shirley?" asked Buster. "You thinking of stealing a couple spotlights?"

"Like, no way am I going up there again!" she said, crossing her arms. "I got nothing but bad vibes from the audience after I read their futures. I mean, it was almost like they didn't want to know!"

"Well, you _did_ kind of predict a lot of dreary stuff," said Hamton hesitantly, afraid that he might offend her. "Remember when you predicted there would be heavy rain?"

"Which came true!" Shirley remarked critically.

"Yeah," Buster said deadpanned, "but you failed to mention the rain drops would be the size of semi-trucks."

"Hmph!"

"Oh, do not fret, Shirley," said Fifi sweetly. "You also gave hope to some. Why, you predicted zat love was bound to find us, and look at Buster and Babs," she smiled, motioning to the two rabbits across from her. "Holding hands, happy, and so very _ensemble_ (together)".

Buster and Babs both blushed.

With a dreamy "Le sigh . . .", Fifi placed her hand against her cheek. "I envy you both. If only I could find _my_ special somebody. I dreamt about him as I walked to school today."

Hamton froze in the act of spooning some soup. "You, uh . . . did?" he asked.

"Oui!" Fifi said, smiling. "Tall, strong, and so, so beau (beautiful). Ze perfect skunk. Oh, if only you all could see him!"

"Yeah. . ." Hamton said normally enough, though inside he felt his appetite diminish and he placed his spoon back into his soup bowl.

"He held my hand," Fifi said soothingly, tracing a purple, furry finger around on the table top. "He was kind and charming, with his montera and —"

"Uh, Fifi?" said Babs, sounding suddenly unsettled.

But Fifi continued, " — zat silky red cape —"

Buster cringed. "Fifi, your - uh, your — " He looked slightly sick and brought his shirt collar up over his nose, but Fifi didn't notice. She was still eyeing the table with immense longing.

Hamton, who was eyeing his friends, frowned with confusion. Babs pressed her napkin hard into her pink nose, and Plucky and Shirley had both hands covering the slits in their beaks, their eyes starting to water.

But then Hamton sniffed the air. Eyes widening, he acted quickly. He patted Fifi's hand. "Fifi!"

Fifi broke from her daydream, looking curious. "Oui?"

"You . . . uh, well . . ." Hamton didn't know how to say it. Besides feeling his face go red at making contact with Fifi's hand, he was afraid of embarrassing her by mentioning it. But knowing it would be worse not to do anything, he silently pointed in the direction of Fifi's tail.

"Huh?" She followed Hamton's finger and saw, to her fright, a very faint yellowish-green mist hovering over her tail. "Oh, my! I am sorry! So sorry!" she said to her friends. Quickly and frantic, Fifi reached behind her back, pulled out a folding fan, and began fanning desperately.

The sickly green cloud vanished, but, as expected, the odor lingered long enough for the surrounding tables to get a whiff, which was enough to make some gag while others merely pinched their noses. Calamity had pulled out a clothes pin and fastened it over his snout. Little Beeper actually ran out of the cafeteria.

Over at his table, Montana Max had thrown the window open, letting in a cold draft that broke through the cafeteria's warmth.

"Hey, skunk!" he snapped in Fifi's direction. Fifi did not look towards him, but kept her eyes down at her half-finished salad. "Skunk! I'm talking to you! Do us all a favor and give a warning the next time you let one off! The food this dump serves is bad enough, we don't need you making us add our vomit to it!"

Hamton gave Monty his hardest glare, who was now pulling on a gasmask before continuing his lunch. Grovely, Hamton noticed, merely had a handkerchief pressed to his nose, though he didn't appear too unsettled by the smell. Behind Monty's back, he gave the rich boy an exasperated shake of his head and moved to close the window, cutting off the bitterly cold draft.

Hamton turned back to Fifi, and at once his anger for Monty died and was replaced with pity.

Fifi's head was bowed and her eyes were slightly wet.

"I am sorry," she said softly to her friends, not taking her eyes off the table. "I did not mean . . . it just . . ."

"Fifi . . .," said Hamton gently, his stomach tying itself in knots. "It's okay. We're not mad." He looked at his friends, praying he was right. But there was no need to worry.

"Yeah, like, come on, girlfriend," said Shirley, placing a hand on Fifi's shoulder. "It wasn't too bad."

"Yeah," said Babs encouragingly. "Nobody fainted, did they? Don't worry about a thing, Fifi. Everyone's fine. And don't listen to a word that rat, Monty, has to say. I can't see how he can criticize you when _his_ face is more likely to make people gag. Poor Grovely must _hate_ having to live with him."

Fifi looked up and gave a small smile.

"Still," said Plucky abruptly, "when something stinks it stinks," and he pushed his last bit of sandwich forward, having lost interest in it. "No offense, Fifi — seriously, I mean that, no offense — but next time spare us your sappy talk. I get that you're lonely, but that stuff alone is enough to make someone lose their — AHH!"

Plucky broke off and winced in pain. Shirley, glaring dangerously with her teeth bared, had punched Plucky in the side of the arm.

But then, to everyone's greater surprise, Plucky jumped as something hard hit him from under the table.

"OW!" he exclaimed, grabbing the whole room's attention. Rubbing his leg, he retorted, "What was THAT for, Hamton?"

The others looked at him in astonishment, but he quickly responded, "Oh, sorry, Plucky! Shirley took me by surprise."

Plucky and Fifi both accepted this answer, but to Hamton's unease, he saw Buster and Shirley giving him suspicious looks, and Babs showed the faintest trace of a smirk.

His throat feeling tight again, Hamton returned to his soup.

* * *

After lunch finished, the students passed some time in the library before heading off to their last classes for the day.

Fifi, Babs, and Plucky left in the middle of the lesson to prepare for the Talent Show, leaving Hamton, Buster, and Shirley stuck listening to Daffy complain about why he should've won an Oscar that currently sat in the trophy case bearing Bugs Bunny's name.

At 2:00, the bell rang and the students poured into the halls on their way to the school auditorium.

Once there, Hamton, Buster, and Shirley grabbed three seats in the front row, closest to the stage. Off to the right at a fold-out table sat the Talent Show's three judges: Principal Bugs Bunny, Prof. Granny, and Prof. Pepe Le Pew. Gogo Dodo stood beside them, his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet. Next to him was a wooden sign, depicting a large clock face with numbers but no hands.

For a while, chatter from the students filled the auditorium, but within minutes, the spacious room fell into quiet darkness when the overhead lights were extinguished and the spotlights illuminated the stage. The folds in the long red curtains were visible as circles of light passed over them. The polished wood floor of the stage gleamed, emphasizing the space in which it stretched.

For a moment, all was still. Then the red curtains divided.

Out stepped Prof. Elmer Fudd, dressed in his blue teacher's suit, his bald head slightly reflecting the spotlight that followed him as he moved forward to address the school.

"Good afternoon, students," said Prof. Fudd, his voice amplified through a handheld microphone, "and welcome to this year's Annuwal Tawent Show. We teachers at Acme Woonaversity are pweased to see that so many aspiawing students have vowunteered to demonstwate their many tawents."

Elmer Fudd took a moment to clear his throat, and around the auditorium, Hamton, Buster, and Shirley could hear students snickering. Prof. Fudd's age-old speech impediment hadn't changed a bit after so many years.

"Now, befowe we begin," Prof. Fudd continued to the now silent crowd, "awwow me to go over the wules. Each student will come on stage one at a time. They will each have a maximum of five minutes to show their tawent which, at the end, will be judged based on skill, gwace, and personawity, each adding to a gwand total of thirty points. The student who wecieves the highest scowe will win the tawent show and a small pwize, compwements of the school staff. And now, without furver ado," and he pulled out a flashcard from his pants pocket, "I pwesent the first pawticipant, Pwuky Duck and his 'Evweything Act'."

The room let off a light applause as Prof. Fudd walked down and sat beside the judges.

From out behind the curtains, Plucky walked on stage, dressed in a light-blue suit jacket and wearing a matching bow tie. His face held calm and confidence, as well as the usual trace of smugness.

Gogo Dodo hopped up and pressed his back against the painted clock face. He pointed his arms up at the twelve and one and slowly started moving one arm counterclockwise from which actual ticking could be heard.

With the five minutes counting down, Plucky began his act.

It was one of the strangest things Hamton and his friends had ever seen, and they had all seen and done some pretty crazy things.

Plucky started off by pulling five bowling pins out from behind his back and began juggling them while singing a loud, ear-torturing something which everyone supposed was a song. Then a unicycle appeared underneath him and he tossed a few pies into the air, each one hitting him squarely in the face. Then he broke into a tap dance; he started reciting Shakespeare mixed with slang; he dissected a frog; he impersonated an owl; and finally, he jumped into a cannon that shot him straight across the room and onto a trampoline nailed to the wall, bouncing him back onto the stage, where he landed with his arms outstretched in an obvious "TA-DA!"

A couple seconds passed where all that could be heard was a single, unnoticed cricket.

Nobody applauded except for Daffy Duck, Hamton, and his friends. The judges and everyone else were staring with wide eyes and baffled faces, not really certain what they had just finished seeing. Plucky's eyes darted around the room, his smile starting to look strained.

Eventually Granny, Bugs, and Pepe came to their senses and wrote down their scores. They each held up a score card, neither looking very impressed: Granny gave Plucky a two; Bugs, a three; and Pepe, a one. A total score of —.

" _Six_?" Plucky bellowed, completely outraged. "I do _**all**_ of that and all you give me is a lousy _**six**_?"

"Sorry, Plucky," said Bugs Bunny, and he truly sounded like he was. "Too many chaotic changes are hardly ever a good thing, even in cartoons. You've got a lot good talent up your sleeve, but you need to have some solid ground onto which you can base your talent, not just let it go crashing around the room. The audience will mostly end up being confused rather than amused, as you can plainly see," and he motioned around the room of still baffled students.

To the right of the judges, Gogo, still attached to the makeshift clock, held up his own kind of score card, which depicted a large capital "D".

"A _'D'_?" Plucky shouted indignantly.

"Yep," said Gogo, smiling. "You totally earned it!"

Growling, grinding his teeth, Plucky ripped off his bowtie and stormed away behind the red curtains.

"What?" called Gogo, looking confused. "It stands for 'Determination'."

"Well, _I_ give Plucky an 'A' for effort," Buster said to his friends.

"Like, wouldn't that be an 'E'?" asked Shirley.

Before Buster could respond, Prof. Fudd, standing beside the judge's table, spoke into the microphone. "Next up, we have Cawamity Coyote and his super science."

On stage walked Calamity Coyote, who demonstrated his scientific ingenuity to the school. Most of it was in the form of highly sophisticated traps, all of which backfired at the last moment. Thankfully, Calamity used his lightning-fast skills to build a landing pad before crashing into the stage. He received a score of twenty for skill and personality, though grace, given all the bangs and unexpected results, was left something to be desired. Gogo's scorecard depicted a stick of dynamite; whether it was meant to be encouraging or insulting, he didn't say.

"Next," said Prof. Fudd, "Elmywa Duff."

Tied to a leash, Elmyra was led on stage by Pete Puma. She had been granted permission to compete in the Talent Show so long as she swore not to run and grab any students, as did happen last year. This year, to everyone's surprise, she recited poetry she created herself. Most of it turned out to be deeply disturbing couplets about "cute widdo" animals she had once owned:

 _I once had a turtle-wirtle named Shelly-Welly,_

 _I used to hug him tight and squeeze his cute shell belly._

 _Then one day, when I woke up in my bed,_

 _I greeted my cute turtle-wirlte, and saw he had no head._

Pale faced and wide-eyed, Granny, Bugs, and Pepe scores went in this order: nine, one, one. Gogo, for once looking disturbed, showed a scorecard with Edvard Munch's famous painting, "The Scream." Elmyra didn't seem to mind, however; she was too busy fighting the urge to leap off stage and find another cutsy-wootsy critter to hug and squeeze, like her dead turtle-wirtle. Thankfully, she seemed to master the impulse for this one occasion and walked willingly offstage with Pete.

"Well, those are images our minds will never be healed of," said Buster.

"Ah, don't worry. We'll be fine," said Shirley nonchalantly. "It's, like, a matter of mind over matter."

"And a matter of keeping away from Elmyra," Hamton added.

"Hmm . . . yeah, that too," Shirley agreed.

Next on stage was Mary Melody, who performed the most normal talent any Toon at Acme Loo ever saw: playing the piano. While it wasn't terribly exciting for most Toons, Hamton thought the young human teenager played rather beautifully and received a fair round of applause at the end. The judges must've liked it too, as they each awarded Mary with an eight, for a total of twenty-four points. For whatever reason, Gogo held up a picture of a heart.

Then at last came Babs Bunny — no bowling pins, no explosives, no disturbing poetry. From the moment she stepped out from behind the red curtains, her identity and outfit changed into . . .

 **(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello. Many of you may be wondering why I'm interrupting this scene. Well, due to the fact that people, organizations, and many sentences themselves are often copyrighted, I feel it would be unwise for me to state too many actors' names, movie titles, and such and such into a fan-made story. So, I'm simply going to stick to scenes that, hopefully, will pass by as acceptable and not copyright infringement. Good luck guessing the references!)**

Babs was dressed in military gear with a red bandana, and appeared to be holding . . . a machine gun. The judges' mouths dropped at the sight of the weapon, but Babs, looking dead serious, pulled a sign out from behind her back, which read:

NOT A REAL GUN! DUH!

Underneath this message, in very tiny print, Hamton could just barely make out, _But seriously, young viewers — never, ever bring a weapon, even a fake one, into school,_ _ **EVER**_ _!_

Then, without warning, heavy metal music blared from out of the overhead speakers. The entire school jumped in their seats as Babs began an ongoing yell and the sound of blank rounds exploded from the gun's barrel. It lasted for 10 whole seconds: the gunfire blaring and Babs' yell of fury.

When the gun finally clicked empty, Babs tossed the gun away, spun around, and was now wearing an elegant dress and a long red-haired wig. From under her feet, an iron ship shot up from out of the stage. Babs stood at the bow's railing and stretched out her arms like a bird, her long red locks flying in the wind as a romantic song swelled in the background.

The ship sank into the stage and the music went from romantic to jazzy. Babs spun around again, stopped, and was now in a colorful Hawaiian shirt. Her hair was spiked at the front and she wore red and black striped pants. For whatever reason, animals — birds, raccoons, cats, dogs — drew to her like fish on a hook (making Elmyra feel very jealous).

The jazz ensemble broke and "Hail to the Chief" took its place. Babs was now on stilts, wearing red, white, and blue clothes, a large top hat on her head, holding a large American flag on a pole.

Then she was a little girl with a red hood, skipping with a basket; a pirate with dreadlocks and a beaded beard; a pale white man with green hair, red lips, and a huge smile that would give any child nightmares. On and on, one impression after another until Gogo's mouth emitted the sound of a ringing bell, signaling the end of Babs' turn.

The end result was deafening. Buster, Hamton, Shirley, as well as the whole school stood up and applauded wildly. Wolf whistles, whooping, and "ENCORE!" roared around the auditorium. Babs, out of breath but clearly happy, gave a bow to her ovation.

"That's my girl!" Buster shouted, cheering like mad.

"Like, awesome!" cheered Shirley, levitating as she applauded.

"What to go, Babs!" cried Hamton, wiping away his tears from having laughed so hard.

A few seats away, Monty was the only one not clapping, looking cranky with his fist pressed into his cheek. To the side of him, Grovely was clapping softly.

"Good show," he said.

When the applause finally died, the judges revealed their scores, and the applause started up again.

Granny and Pepe both gave Babs a nine, and Bugs gave her a perfect ten: A score of twenty-eight, for excellent personality, superb skill, and reasonably fine grace (sort of). Gogo's sign depicted a golden Oscar.

Once the clapping died away for a second time, Elmer Fudd stood up from his chair beside the judges table and cleared his throat. "And now," he said, "pwease welcome our wast participant, Fifi Wa Fume, perfowming 'Habanewa' by Fwench composer, Georges Bizet."

 **(A.N. - To hear a sample of the song, go to YouTube and search "Habanera - Carmen - Bizet - Nana Mouskouri". Just one of several fine examples.)**

The lights of the auditorium, which had lit up for Babs' act, dimmed again, leaving only one spotlight to shine on the center crease in the large, red curtains. Out from it stepped Fifi.

Hamton's breath seemed to catch in his throat and his cheeks were suddenly warm. Fifi was wearing a dark rosy pink dress. The sleeves were short and the skirt fell to her ankles. Her light purple eyes gleamed, her face was calm, and her hands were folded together up front. Her posture was totally peaceful. Even her large fluffy tail remained still.

Hamton almost forgot to breathe.

Then, out of the corner, where no one could see, a violin began to play. The first few notes were soft and short. After three repeated measures, a sound, more beautiful than any instrument, filled the auditorium.

Fifi's voice reached every ear, singing an aria that practically danced with the violin, playing steadily with each French word. Its melody was gorgeous; its harmony, graceful; its tone, gentle. As the song progressed, Fifi's voice increased where the notes demanded, and never did she fall short.

Buster and Shirley (in their seats), Plucky and Babs (both backstage), the whole student body and faculty — all stared speechless as Fifi sang and walked across the stage, her steps practically lighter than air.

Hamton was spellbound; he could feel nothing but his beating heart. He didn't understand what the song meant, but the music seemed almost too beautiful for words. And the one singing it . . . the song was nothing compared to her. Hamton's pig ears seemed to sigh as Fifi's voice carried the melody. She moved like a blossom on a soft, slow breeze, her hands gently waving across the air. Her expression was passionate. She seemed to be seeking something — something she wanted very dearly.

Again, Hamton found himself short of breath.

The ending was profound. Fifi held the note, sang the last few, and the violin concluded it all.

Applause followed immediately. Hamton stood up in his seat and began clapping so hard that his hands hurt. Buster and Shirley joined him, though with considerably milder cheers and shouts. Backstage, Babs, not caring that the applause was louder than it had been for her performance, clapped eagerly for her friend, whooping crazily. Even Plucky, who was open-mouthed and dumbfounded, couldn't keep his hands from clapping. There were whoops, wolf whistles, and "BRAVOS" everywhere; someone even threw a dollar or two. Onstage, Fifi, looking quite humble, smiled gently and curtsied.

When the applause finally started to die away, Buster made certain to stop Hamton's clapping, which did not die down with the rest. Buster caught hold of one wrist as it drew back, and Shirley, understanding Buster's intention, grabbed the other. Hamton seemed to awake from a fabulous dream and sat back down in his seat as the room went silent.

Up front, the judges gave their scores: Three perfect tens. Gogo, who was smiling broadly, showed his scorecard, which depicted, for whatever reason, a bullfighter.

"Wadies and gentleman, we have a winner!" Elmer Fudd announced, his voice sounding through the speakers. "First pwace goes to Fifi Wa Fume!"

The clapping resumed as Plucky, Calamity, Mary, Babs, and Elmyra (now held by a steel chain) walked back on the stage, congratulating Fifi on her performance. Plucky, Hamton noticed, did not look quite as happy as the others.

Bugs Bunny walked onto the stage and shook Fifi's hand. He handed her a white envelope, then walked forward to address the school. Elmer Fudd handed him the microphone and the audience went quiet.

"Thank you," said Bugs Bunny, the spotlight's beam shining down atop of him. "Thank you, for your applause and cheer. Thank you, staff, for helping to make this show happen. And, of course, thank you, our contenders." He smiled proudly at Fifi and the others. "This was a fantastic display from our students. It's inspiring to see that the talents at Acme Looniversity are as varied and surprising as those we have seen today. Please, if you will, one more round of applause for our six participants."

And they did, all of them. Hamton winced at how sensitive his palms had become. Thankfully, though, this applause did not last quite as long.

Bugs cleared his throat. "Now, before I let you all go and get into zany cartoon shenanigans — as is likely, despite our show having been long off the air — I have one last thing to say. And no," he smirked, "it has nothing to do with homework or the upcoming Cartoon Exams."

A few relieved exhales were heard all over the auditorium.

"As you all know," said Bugs, "from the snow we have outside and with today being the first of December, the holidays will be here soon and we, the school staff, have decided to put on a little celebration this year. We will be hosting a holiday party here at the school on December twenty-fourth. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza, or any other winter holiday, free to stop by and let your spirit show. Any and all are welcome to join the party. There'll be food, music, a gift exchange, and more, all in celebration of the best days of the year. So we hope you all join us to hang out, have fun, give well wishes, and all that warm fuzzy stuff."

There was a pause, and then Bugs concluded, "Just a little something for you all to think about. A plot device, one might say." He gave a wink to the reader, then said **,** "School dismissed."

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. But, if you can, be nice about it. Be honest, but not vicious.**


	3. Cold Treats and Cold Feet

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 _Cold Treats and Cold Feet  
_  
 _~Monday - Dec. 1st~_

On Bugs' dismissal, the student body began pouring out of the auditorium. Some zipped out so fast that they left trails of dust in their wake and were out the school's front doors in under five seconds. Others, including Hamton and his friends, took their time as they walked out past the dozen rows of seats. Fifi had told them to go on ahead without her, saying she wanted a quick word with the judges.

Out in the hallway, Babs could hardly contain her surprise and thrill.

"Did you all _see_ that?" she burst out excitedly, nudging Buster and Plucky's sides, the latter looking quite irritant.

"Like, I know!" Shirley exclaimed. "Fifi knocked me for one big metaphorical loop!"

"Yeah," said Hamton with a sigh and grin. He couldn't help it. Everything about Fifi's performance was replaying in his mind — her movements, her voice, her face, herself. . . . It was impossible to think about anything else, so much that it was a real chore for Hamton to focus on where he was going.

Arriving at his locker, Hamton opened it and pulled out his coat. He was in the process of zipping it up when he was suddenly jerked out of his daydream by what sounded like grumbling.

Closing his locker, Hamton found the source at once. Plucky was buttoning up his coat, glaring and muttering angrily under his breath.

"All in all, a fine show," said Buster, pushing his arms through his coat sleeves. "Good job, you two," he said to Babs and Plucky, "very good."

" _Good_?" said Babs incredulously. "Me and Plucky were good. Fifi was, as she says, 'fantastique'!" she added with a bad French accent. "I had no idea she could sing like that. Just . . . OW!" she exclaimed. "Talk about blowing away the competition!"

"Yeah, I'll be sure to alert the Weather Channel," Plucky said bitterly, slamming his locker shut.

"Plucky!" said Shirley disapprovingly. "Like, be a good sport!"

"A good sport?" Plucky spat, outraged. "With the score I got, I should've been awarded for not swearing! I mean, a _**six**_? I practically put on my own talent show and all I get is a lousy _**six**_? And, in case none of you noticed, I came in dead last!"

"It could've been worse, Plucky," said Hamton reasonably, hoping to ease his friend. "The score could've been lower."

"Oh, yeah, _that's_ a bright side," Plucky replied derisively. "Like any of _you_ know how it feels."

"Yeah, I do!" Babs retorted, shoving her locker closed. "I lost, too, Plucky! But so what? You don't see me grinding _my_ teeth!"

"I'm surprised you aren't! I mean, you did like ten amazing impressions and all Fifi did was sing a little song about linguini or armor or whatever it was!"

"She sang _beautifully_!" said Hamton shortly, now doing his utmost not to sound angry. "You remember what Shirley said this morning. Fifi worked really hard to prepare!"

"And what, you think _**I**_ didn't?" At these words, Plucky's anger subsided, leaving him to look rather hurt. "I spent a full month thinking up my act! I practiced and put aside time when I could've been doing other important things, like TV or video games! You'd think someone would've appreciated how hard I worked! You think the judges would've been kind enough to show Plucky Duck a little kindness and give him as fair a chance as everyone else! But no! All I get is one-fifth of the total score and less than one-eighth of the school clapping!"

Hamton no longer felt irritated, nor did Babs look annoyed. The hallway, which was empty except for the five them, was completely quiet now. Plucky was staring down at the floor, looking alone and miserable, as though he had lost more than just the talent show.

"Plucky, you gave it your best," said Buster sympathetically. "Everyone who saw your act knows how hard you worked at it. You did a lot in such a short time and came out standing proud and confident. You gave it a lot of heart, and for that, you should be proud."

Plucky scoffed. "Proud that I got dead last and nothing to show for my work?"

"Was that the only reason you entered?" asked Hamton. "To try and win a prize?"

"Well, duh!" Plucky said loudly, throwing out his arms. "Why else would I go to all that trouble?"

Buster shook his head and sighed. "Well . . . your act probably just wasn't what the judges were looking for, Plucky."

"Yeah," said Shirley, "or they, like, probably just didn't have enough time to properly assess their scores." She placed a hand on Plucky's shoulder. "For what it's worth, _I_ thought you were great."

"We all did," said Babs kindly. "And Plucky, I mean that. I could never have placed that trampoline on that wall in time _or_ sung that song in such an off-key like you did. It was a good demonstration of quick-thinking and humor, something people love seeing in cartoons. Some judges are just tough to please."

"She's right," agreed Hamton. "You know how strict Granny is about noise. Not to mention she's pretty old-fashioned. Prof. Pepe is more into culture and romance, which might explain his score. And . . . well, even Bugs Bunny can make mistakes."

There were a few seconds of silence as Plucky allowed these words sink in. Hamton looked from Buster, to Babs, to Shirley, who all seemed to share his feelings: hoping Plucky would feel better. Finally. . .

"Yeah . . ." said Plucky slowly, a smile growing on his bill. "Yeah, you're right. All of you are. Ha!" He barked with laughter. "What am I moping for? _I_ know I'm talented. Who cares about scores! The judges probably didn't have one high enough for me, anyway!"

Hamton and the others rolled their eyes, but were happy to see Plucky back to his normal, cocky, friendly self.

"Would've been nice to win a prize, though," he said with a shrug, fastening the last button on his coat. "Do any of you know what Fifi won?"

"No," said Babs. "I asked around about it, but the teachers said it was just a 'small prize.'"

"Well, they were right about that," said Buster. "Unless it's one of those ACME Ultra-Elastic envelopes, I don't think it can be anything more than a gift certificate."

"Well, we'll just have to wait and ask her when she — hey, Fifi!" Babs cried happily.

Fifi had just appeared around the hallway corner. She was still wearing her rose pink dress, now with her winter scarf. She was also carrying, Hamton noticed, a medium-sized bouquet of roses, as well as a small white envelope pinched between two fingers.

Babs and Shirley rushed forward and embraced Fifi, squealing lightly.

"Ahh, merci!" said Fifi happily, returning the embrace. "Babs, your impressions were, how you say, 'top notch'! Good show, no?"

Babs' voice changed, becoming more feminine and reminiscent of a famous actress. "Marvelous! Most excellent, darlin'!"

"Yeah!" said Shirley, patting Fifi's shoulder. "I could literally feel myself floating in my seat . . . though, that could've just been me levitating. But, like, same thing!"

"You sang beautifully," said Hamton. "Absolutely beautiful."

Fifi smiled warmly. She looked as though she were about to reply 'Thank you', but Hamton, who had been eyeing the bouquet, asked over her, "Who gave you those?"

Fifi looked down at her roses. "Zhey are a gift from Pepe. He had trained me, you know. Much of my performance, I owe to him."

The unknown discomfort that had formed inside Hamton's stomach at the sight of these flowers vanished. "Oh," he said with renewed delight. "He must've been proud. You really brought down the house."

"Figuratively speaking, of course," said Buster, grinning. "Bravo, Fifi."

"Merci, boys," she said, beaming at them.

"Yeah. . ." came a very humble voice.

All eyes turned to Plucky. After a second's hesitation, he stepped forward and held out his green feathered hand. "Nice job, Fifi."

Though a little surprised at first, Fifi smiled and shook his hand. "Merci, Plucky. I liked your act." With a look of sympathy, she added, "Ze judges were not fair to you at all. Zat is why I stayed behind, to talk to zem about giving you a better score."

"You did?" he said, surprised. "What did they say?"

Fifi frowned. "Zey said ze scores were final. I am so sorry."

Plucky looked disappointed for an instant, but then, to Hamton's relief, gave a shrug and calmly said, "Eh, no hard feelings. There's always next time. So," a look of hunger came over his face and he gazed down at the envelope in Fifi's fingers, "what'd you win?"

"Let us see," said Fifi. "Hamton, can you hold zhese, s'il vous plaît?" Without looking, she held out her bouquet, which Hamton took as a sudden warmth filled his cheeks.

He huddled inward with his friends and watched as Fifi slid her finger across the envelope's flap, tearing it open. She reached in and pulled out a rectangular paper, the same size as the envelope. Her eyes sparkled. "Ooh la la!

"What is it?" asked Babs excitedly.

"A gift certificate!" Fifi answered happily.

"Heh, told you all," said Buster. "What's it for?"

Fifi turned it over and showed it to them.

The gift certificate, Hamton saw, was decorated with colored sprinkles, drawn on a white surface that resembled frosting, with the following words:

 _ **Frosty's Famous Ice Cream Parlor ... $30.00**_

"Thirty bucks?" Plucky shouted, eyeing the price on the certificate. "That's enough to last a month!"

"The teachers must've been in a good mood this year," said Buster. "That or this is Frosty's way of thanking Acme Loo for all those ice cream parties we threw."

"Speaking of parties," said Fifi happily, "come, mes amies! Let it be my treat to treat all of you!"

With a bounce in her step, Fifi made her way to the school exit, her friends following after.

Outside, the cold winter air hit Hamton's bare hands, still holding onto Fifi's bouquet. But he didn't care. At the prospect of eating ice cream with his friends and seeing Fifi so happy with her success, Hamton felt perfectly warm as he and the others made their way into the city.

* * *

Frosty's Famous Ice Cream Parlor was Acme Acre's best ice cream shop. Every time Hamton walked past it on his way home from school, he had to fight down the urge to walk in and order a sundae. The sweet, cool scents of the place always floated outside on the air in a way that was almost teasing. The shop's aroma, however, was only the test sample for the vast array of sweets on the inside.

Frosty's had every kind of ice cream flavor a Toon could imagine, like Raspberry Tropical Confetti and Wintergreen Tea Swirl. Frosty's also served a wide variety of cakes, chocolates, and fancy desserts. They even sold treats that were totally sugar free, low in fat, and lactose-free, so absolutely anyone could eat there. Even the Acme Acres' dentists and fitness instructors had nothing bad to say about the place (though this could've been due to the business Frosty's often brought them).

Except for a few customers, the Parlor was mostly empty when Hamton and his friends arrived there. Clean, spacious, and the colors of red and white, the interior had the sleek appearance of a classy old diner. The air was warm and mixed with dozens of sugary scents — very welcoming on a cold winter's day.

One by one, Fifi generously allowed each of her friends to order a tasty treat with her certificate.

Buster and Babs decided to share a Carrot Sundae with cherry sauce, set in a beautiful glass ice cream bowl.

Plucky chose a Rocky Road Cone with a dusting of crushed Graham cracker and extra mini marshmallows (which covered half the ice cream).

Shirley ordered a simple scoop of lemon sorbet, extra tangy so it would take longer to eat.

When Hamton's turn came, he only ordered a Neapolitan Cup, which held three individual scoops of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. When he sat down at the circular table, Fifi's bouquet laying in front of him, everyone (minus Fifi, who was buying her ice cream) gawked at Hamton in surprise.

"Uh . . . is that just an appetizer, Hamton?" Plucky asked, licking the marshmallows off his cone.

"Oh, just saving room for dinner, you know," Hamton told them with a modest wave of his spoon.

This, of course, wasn't entirely true. Hamton knew he could've eaten _far_ more and would _still_ have room for dinner, but he didn't want Fifi's whole certificate depleted simply on account of him being a big eater. Besides, she couldn't have that much money left on it, not after ordering for five friends _and_ herself.

When Fifi got to the table, she was holding a small glass bowl with a very beautiful, shiny chocolate ice cream.

"French silk with a smidgen of vanilla mousse," she said, beaming, holding her ice cream up. "Zhey just added it to ze menu."

She sat down in the remaining empty chair, right between Shirley and Hamton.

"Thanks for the ice cream, Fifi," said Babs, as she and Buster started on their sundae, first eating the carrots.

"Oh, think nothing of it, mon amie," she said. "It is only proper zat I share. Besides, someone like me cannot eat too much ice cream. Not good for ze figure, you see."

"I hope we didn't take up all your certificate," said Hamton, his ice cream still untouched.

"Oh, do not worry," she said with a wave of her hand. "I still have nine dollars left. Zat's plenty for anozher day when I am up for a treat. But think of today as my way of saying, 'Merci' for your kind applause and praise. Now, as you Americans like to say, 'dig in.'"

Without another word, they did just that.

Hamton began with the chocolate, scooping an entire half of the brown ice cream. He savored the rich, cold taste as it melted in his mouth. Fifi, he noticed, ate more delicately, and in such a cute manner that Hamton contented to watch her out of the corner of his eyes as he blindly scooped bits from his bowl.

After about a minute, Buster, halfway through his share of his and Babs' sundae, asked, "So, how long did you train for the talent show, Fifi?"

"Two months," she answered. "I started practicing in ze first week of October. I already knew ze words to 'Habanera', but Pepe helped tremendously with ze movements on stage and with ze longer notes. It took a toll on my throat during ze first two weeks, but it went much smoozer from zhere. Zis dress was Babs' and Shirley's work, of course," she said, smiling to her two gal pals. "And, of course, credit must also go to Monsieur Bizet for creating ze song."

"Bet he would've loved to hear _you_ sing it," said Hamton, careful to make it sound casual and not as tender as he might have.

Fifi smirked lightly while taking another nibble from her ice cream. "Oh, who knows? Ze song was not so popular when it first premiered."

"Really?" asked Hamton, surprised.

"Oui," Fifi said with a nod. "Poor Monsieur Bizet was scathed by zhose horrible critics."

"Yeah, but that was before cartoons were invented," Babs remarked. "Folks back then were always uptight with their performances. Nowadays people are much more appreciative, especially when it comes to love songs."

"Oh, I suppose. . ." said Fifi with a sigh, her hand on her white fluffy cheek.

"What's wrong, Fifi?" asked Hamton, holding a spoonful of vanilla over his bowl.

"Oh, nothing," she said, eyeing the table top. "But . . . when it comes to love songs, 'Habanera' is not exactly on ze list, at least not for me."

Befuddled silence struck the table. Even Plucky, who had been totally absorbed in his ice cream through the song's very brief history, looked taken aback.

"Not a love song?" he asked incredulously. "What are you talking about? The way _you_ sung it, I'm surprised Cupid didn't show up to shout 'Encore'! How can you, Fifi La Fume, who's obsessed with romance, not consider it a love song?"

"Because," she said with a hint of depression and annoyance, "ze opera to which 'Habanera' belongs is _not_ very romantic, at least not _my_ idea of romantic."

There was a pause in which Fifi slowly stirred her ice cream, her expression somewhere between sadness and frustration.

"Uh . . . Fifi?" said Shirley, holding her lemon sorbet cone aloft. "Like, could you connect the dots on that, please?"

Fifi gave another sigh and stopped stirring, letting go of her spoon. "In ze opera, _Carman_ , 'Habanera' is sung by ze main character, Carman."

"How surprising," said Plucky dryly, before shirking at the look coming from Shirley. "Sorry, Fifi. You were saying?"

Fifi went on, "You see, Carmen is, at first, attracted to a solider, and 'Habanera' represents her passion and personal view on romance. Ze song is a beautiful and accurate testament to love, saying it is unpredictable. It also says how love can be painful and difficult to grasp. Ze song literally calls love 'a rebellious bird.'"

"Kind of like Plucky when he's asked to do his homework," said Buster, from which a few laughs were earned.

"Hardy har har," Plucky muttered in annoyance, taking a long lick from his ice cream.

Clearing her throat from having chuckled, Fifi began again. "Ze song, as I have said, _is_ fine. I love ze melody. I truly do. But Carman, who sings ze song, is _not_ very lovable. In ze opera, she begins by saying she loves ze solider, but later shuns her affection for him and turns, instead, to admire a bullfighter."

Fifi gave the table a reproachful look. "She is fickle and does not understand ze true meaning of love. She seeks it, yet does not cherish it _or_ its deeper meaning." Fifi let off a frustrated sigh and pressed her palms to her forehead, flattening the front of her silky violet hair. "She makes love seem so deceitful. When I was on stage today, I was, more or less, playing ze character of Carmen. I only agreed to do so because Pepe said it would help influence ze act."

"It was just a song, though," said Plucky, confused by the mournful look now on Fifi's face.

"I know," Fifi said weakly. "But. . ."

But Fifi didn't, or rather couldn't, elaborate any further.

Whatever appetite Hamton had remaining vanished. If she had not been so close to him, he might not have seen the trace of dampness in Fifi's eyes.

Without taking his gaze off her, he laid his spoon down into his bowl.

"But, Fifi," he said gently, "you're not like Carman."

"Yeah," said Babs in an equally kind tone. "You're not fickle. You have a very good understanding of love. From what you've said, it sounded like our pal, Carman, was more interested in a prize than a relationship. Don't compare yourself to her. Just because Carman sung it, it doesn't mean the song itself is bad. She just didn't get the meaning, like you said."

"And besides," said Hamton, "that was just a school talent show. We all know who you are, Fifi."

Fifi looked at him, and slowly smiled. "Oui," she said, wiping her eyes. "Pardon, mes amies, for my silly ideas. I guess maybe ze song just hit ze wrong note in me."

"Well, if it's taken away your appetite, I'll gladly finish your ice cream for you," said Plucky, who held out his hand eagerly.

"Plucky!" said Babs disapprovingly.

"What? It's almost melted anyway, look. Whoa! So is yours, Hamton."

Hamton looked down and saw that Plucky was right. The remaining scoops of his Neapolitan Cup were now little more than soft lumps, mixed in brown, white, and pink swirls.

"Oh, well," Fifi said with a laugh. Picking up her bowl, she raised it in Hamton's direction. "Ice cream soup is also délicieux, no?"

"Uh . . . yeah," said Hamton, and he picked up his bowl too.

Fifi tapped it with hers as though they had done a toast.

"À votre santé," she said, giving Hamton a wink, and she raised her bowl to her lips and sipped.

"Yeah. . .," said Hamton, "cheers." And he sipped from his own bowl, hiding his blush from Fifi and hopefully the others.

* * *

"So," Buster said about five minutes later after he and Babs dropped their spoons into their empty sundae bowl, "anyone thinking of going to the party on the twenty-fourth?"

"Oh, I guess," Shirley said casually. "I'm sure if it's, like, any party, it'll be sure to be cool or some junk."

"Especially since it's a _holiday_ party," said Plucky, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "And we all know what the holidays mean."

"Decorations?" said Buster.

"Cookies and treats?" said Hampton.

"Mistletoe?" said Fifi.

"Peace on Earth and Good will toward Men?" said Babs.

"People, like, dreamin' of a white Christmas?" said Shirley.

"Nope! Better than all that stuff," said Plucky. "Presents!"

Hamton and the others gave Plucky a very tiring look.

"Plucky, please. Not _that_ old cliché," said Buster. "It's been told so many times in so many stories and movies that it's almost embarrassing."

"Hey, I'm just getting in the spirit," said Plucky, sounding as though he were the only one of them who had any sense. "Besides, you heard Bugs. We get to exchange gifts at the party. We get to give them to each other, and it won't be the only thing there. There's bound to be plenty of decorations and cookies and all that other fun stuff. But gifts? Gifts _always_ add that beautiful bit of sparkle."

At that moment, Hamton could've sworn he saw such a sparkle appear in Plucky's eyes that always happened whenever he talked about money, treasure, or anything else he liked.

"So," Plucky added, "anyone have any gift ideas?"

They all went quiet and took the moment to consider.

In all honesty, there wasn't anything in particular that Hamton wanted; not at the moment at least. Christmas cookies and treats were always nice to get, but besides those, there wasn't much else that came to mind. Hamton knew perfectly well what he wanted above everything else, but really . . . what were the odds of him ever getting _that_?

As for his friends, Hamton had nothing to worry about. He had made a mental note at the start of the New Year to save money for his friends as spring, summer, and fall went by. He already knew exactly what he was getting his friends. At least, he did for most of them. . . .

"Well?" asked Plucky. "Anyone?"

"I would totally love a new crystal ball," said Shirley, more to Plucky than to the others. "My fortune telling has been, like, lacking lately. I swear, it's like I'm not connected to the spirits anymore. That or they're embarrassed to be around me and the dull, opaque thing I currently use to communicate with them."

No one said anything to this. None of her friends doubted Shirley's ability in her psychic powers (as she was levitating at this very moment), but when it came to fortune telling, no one knew whether or not Shirley's predictions were legit or simply guess work. More often than not, it was a mixture of both.

"Come on, anyone?" asked Plucky, who didn't seem to hear a word Shirley had just said. "Buster, how about you?"

"Well, to keep it inexpensive, I'm always up for carrots," said Buster. "Carrot cake, carrot pudding, carrot butter, carrot cider, carrots patches, patches in the shape of carrots, and —"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," said Plucky impatiently. "You're nuts for carrots." In a tone of annoyance, he added, "Yeash!"

"Oh!" said Buster eagerly. "Carrot nuts are good, too!"

Letting out a groan, Plucky asked, "And you, Babs?"

"Eh, carrots are good, too," she said. Plucky groaned yet again. "Though I wouldn't mind some new clothes for my impressions. Some of them are starting to wear out."

"Well, for those interested," said Plucky, "here's _my_ Christmas list."

He reached into his coat pockets and pulled out what at first looked like five coverless encyclopedias. He tossed one each to his friends where they landed, with a loud THUMP, onto the table. Hamton had caught his and almost fell out of his chair by the sheer weight of it.

"Uh, don't you mean Christmas _lists_?" said Babs with a lot of strain, holding up her copy. "Asking for a bit much, don't ya think?"

"Don't worry," said Plucky, "they're just ideas. Jeez, I'm not _that_ greedy. Just think of them as something to turn to, just in case you can't think of anything."

Hamton scanned down the front page littered with Plucky's handwriting, each idea set apart by bullet points. There was every single gift possibility listed, including many that Hamton didn't think were sold in this country, or even on this planet.

 **-** _ **Mini Astro-Lab in a Pocket**_

 _ **-Year Supply of Mini Marshmallows**_

 _ **-Wild Zebra Grooming Kit**_

 _ **-History of the Marshmallow by Francis McMallow**_

In the margins of the second and fourth ideas, Hamton saw that Plucky had added a bold capital X in red ink.

"Not going for simplicity this year, I see," said Buster dryly. "When did you find time to make all these?"

"I made them on my way here. Didn't you all see me?"

"So _that's_ what you were doing," said Babs. "We thought you were actually taking your homework seriously for once. You must've gone through, what, forty notebooks?"

"Forty-five, actually," said Plucky unconcernedly. He turned to Hamton and Fifi, "I still haven't heard anything from you two. What's on your minds for presents?"

"Oh, the usual's fine with me," said Hamton modestly. "No need to go all out."

"Cookies, again?" Buster said, an eyebrow raised. "Come on, Hamton. That's what you asked for last year."

"And the year before," Babs added.

"That's because they're varied and inexpensive," said Hamton. "There's always plenty of treats around the holidays — cookies, candy, the usual — and all go for different prices, so there's no worry about getting too carried away. Food or anything else is fine with me. Just, please, don't spend too much."

"Fair enough," said Plucky with a shrug. "And you, Fifi?"

"Oh, zhere is only one thing I would need for Christmas." She pressed her hands into her cheeks and smiled dreamily. "Mon petit skunk hunk."

Fifi let out a deep "Le sigh . . .", and little pink hearts appeared above her head and vanished into nothing. Hamton, meanwhile, felt a strange mix of longing and sadness in his stomach — an emptiness which seemed to erase the ice cream he just ate and which he knew no food could ever fill.

"Sheesh!" said Plucky, looking as though he had just witnessed something slimy and gross. "We just ate, Fifi! Please, try and keep your mushy stuff to —"

"Plucky, do I have to do this again?" Shirley asked darkly, her hand held out next to Plucky's head, one eyebrow raised as though daring him to go on.

But Plucky seemed to get the message. "Sorry, I'm sorry!" he said, and he toned his voice down to one more reasonable. "What I meant to say was, Fifi, is there anything that you would like someone to give you? Something that someone can, you know, actually buy?"

Fifi thought. "Hmm. . . . Well . . . zhere is one other thing I find interesting, but," she let out a laugh, "zhere is no chance of it."

She paused and said nothing more.

"What is it, though?" asked Hamton, very curious.

"A little bottle of zat new perfume," she answered, her face no longer holding that self-induced trance.

Plucky scoffed. "Figures. Girls and their trinkets. OW! Just kidding!" he retorted, rubbing his sides where Shirley and Babs elbowed him.

"Uh, question, Fifi," said Babs, and her voice and expression were suddenly cold. "Is the perfume you're talking about one of _those_ kind of perfumes?"

"What?" Fifi asked, surprised by how harsh Babs sounded, as was Hamton. He had never heard Babs sound so critical. Whatever she was incensed about, however, Fifi seemed to understand better than he did.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Fifi said, shaking her head. "It is not like zat horrible Gotcha Grabmore brand. I refuse to buy or use _any_ product zat cause harm to poor animals! Zis perfume's ingredients are entirely from plants and flowers, and is brand new from Shamel."

"'Shamel?" repeated Buster, an eyebrow raised. "Fifi, don't you mean Cha-"

"Buster!" Babs muttered, shaking her head frantically.

"What?" he asked. "I was just about to say —"

"Copyright," Babs whispered through her teeth. "Buster, copyright!"

"What do you mean, 'copyri—," Buster froze, his eyes widening. "Oh! Yeah. Right. Uh, never mind."

"So, Fifi," said Babs, her tone back to its usual calm, "you said this perfume is made from flowers?"

"Oui," she happily resumed. "Flowers, plants, perhaps even a few fruit extracts. It is Shamel's newest line of decadent fragrance. Carefully crafted, its chemistry is a masterpiece of natural scents and cleverly mixed inspiration. It can be worn as both a day _and_ evening aroma, and is said to be so effective, it can make even garbage alluring. It is, as Shamel's article said, 'ze only perfume any woman would ever need.'"

Babs let out a long whistle. "Sounds like you know exactly what you want for Christmas."

To everyone's surprise, though, Fifi began to laugh, "Oh, do not be ridiculous, Babs! I am not expecting _anyone_ to buy me zat perfume, least of all my friends!" Once her chortling died away, Fifi resumed, in a much simpler tone, "Other zan zat, any gift will be fine by me. I like surprises."

"Well, then," said Plucky, "we each have a whole month — let's just do our best. Oh, and by the way," he added, raising a green finger, "I've marked a few of my favorite gift ideas with a red 'X', just to let you know."

"Thanks, we'll take it into account, Plucky," Buster said with a roll of his eyes.

He pulled out from the table and put on his coat, tucking the large list under his arm. "Well, I don't know about you all, but I'm gonna head home. Want to join me, Babsy?"

"Sure," she replied, and she too dawned her coat and tucked her copy of Plucky's list under her arm. Then she got to her feet and joined hands with Buster. "Thanks for the ice cream, Fifi."

"Yeah, thanks," said Buster.

"No, problème, mes amies," Fifi said sweetly, giving the two a cute little wave. "You two lovebirds enjoy yourselves."

Buster and Babs blushed, then walked to the door and out of the shop. The door gave a little jingle, and Hamton thought he saw the two rabbits lean in on each other as they disappeared from sight behind the shop window.

"Well, I better, like, be off to home as well," said Shirley. "My aura is calling for some intense meditation and you _don't_ want to see my aura when she's cranky."

 _Duly noted_ , Hamton thought, not having the nerve to say it aloud.

Shirley levitated cross-legged up from her spot. (She hadn't drawn her chair out this whole time). She stretched her arms out and her coat, floating of its own accord, fitted itself onto her. With the zipper pulled up, Shirley floated down so that her webbed feet touched the floor, then she approached Plucky, who was still seated.

"Bye, Plucky."

And in plain sight of anyone watching, Shirley kissed Plucky on the cheek.

Fifi let out a heartfelt "Le sigh. . ."; Hamton smiled in admiration, both at the kiss and Fifi's voice; Plucky, however, shirked a little.

"Jeez, Shirls!" he complained. "Not in public! It's embarrassing!"

Shirley's mouth fell open. Hamton didn't blame her; of all the dumb things to come out of Plucky's mouth today. . . .

Shirley's expression became very cold and incensed. With an indignant growl, she turned and stomped out of the shop.

"What?" Plucky cried after her, clearly confused. "All I said is I don't want you to be embarrassed! Shirley, wait!"

Plucky jumped from his seat and ran to the door. "Thanks for the ice cream!" he called back, pushing the door open and rushing off down the sidewalk.

The bell above the door jangled as it closed and the shop fell silent. Hamton eyes roamed across the other tables and saw that he and Fifi were quite alone except for the cashier whose back was turned, reading a magazine.

Hamton gave a quiet gulp. He had not expected to be alone with Fifi — not that he was sorry.

He turned back to her and felt his cheeks go red. She was glancing at the spot in the window where Plucky had sprinted after Shirley, that dreamy look etched on her face again.

"Le sigh," she said for the umpteenth time. "Love is a beautiful, rebellious bird, no?"

"Er — Yeah . . . I . . . I guess so," said Hamton bashfully.

Fifi was still staring at the window, a folded fist pressed to her white cheek. Hamton, meanwhile, was content with watching the girl beside him: her face, her soft fur, her pink dress, her large tail which was even larger than her.

After a little while in which Fifi seemed to have had her fill of daydreaming, she gave a soft, nonverbal exhale and straightened herself up. Hamton hurried to turn his gaze back onto the table, not wanting Fifi to catch that he had been staring at her for well over a minute, lest she get the wrong idea (the kind that any boy would NEVER want a girl to think).

Feeling it was now time to go, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, um . . . thanks for the ice cream, Fifi."

"Oh, it was nothing. I hope you had enough, zhough," she said, looking concerned. "You only ordered three scoops."

"Oh, I'm fine," said Hamton, his cheeks burning. "L-Like I said, I'm saving room for dinner. And besides," he added, deciding he might as well tell the whole truth, "I didn't want to drain your whole certificate."

"It was my treat, Hamton," said Fifi reassuringly. "I cannot eat zat much ice cream. It will go to my figure. My tail is already big enough as it is." And she giggled, giving her large, fluffy tail a playful wag.

"But your tail's beautiful."

Hamton froze. The warmth in his cheeks sunk like a brick and were replaced with cold, piercing ice. What did he just say? Where in Spielberg's name had those words come from?

He looked nervously up at Fifi, who, for a moment, looked surprised, but then smiled kindly.

"Merci, Hamton," she said with a giggle. "Zat is very sweet."

Instantly, Hamton could feel his face return to its comfortable, steady warmth. He smiled to the floor and, deciding now was a good time to part before he accidentally blabbed anything else, he got to his feet and pulled on his winter coat and hat. He then grabbed hold of the massive list Plucky had thrown to him and dropped it in a side pocket of his overalls, its weight now resting at Hamton's hip.

Fifi got to her feet, too, wrapped her white scarf around her neck, and took hold of her copy of Plucky's list, resting it on the side of her waist. Then, together, she and Hamton walked out of the ice cream shop.

Outside in the cold weather, Hamton's cheeks were hit by a frosty breeze, making him cringe.

"Aren't you cold, Fifi?" he asked, his hands now in his coat pockets. "I mean, all you have is that scarf and your dress."

"Oh, I am perfectly warm," she said confidently. "My fur is more zhan capable, and if not, I can always use my tail. See?"

With a giggle, Fifi used her free hand to grab hold of her tail and wrapped it around her whole self. It covered her like a blanket, so that, with her rose pink dress, Hamton was put in mind of an exotic flower.

It was then that he remembered. "Wait!" he cried, causing Fifi to unfurl her tail in alarm. "Your flowers!"

Hamton burst back through the doors of Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor, which jingled loudly. He grabbed the bouquet off the table, then rushed back outside.

"Here you go," he said, holding the flowers upright.

At that moment, on that quiet sidewalk in Acme Acres, the world seemed to pause. It suddenly occurred to Hamton what he was doing. He knew that the action and situation was in no way meaningful, but still . . . he was holding a bouquet of roses to a girl . . . and not just any girl. . . .

"Merci," said Fifi, and she took hold of the wrappings covering the stems. Hamton watched how closely her hand came to his.

Once the flowers left his grip, his hands stung in the cold evening air, prompting him to stuff them straight into his pockets again. "Well . . . see you tomorrow, Fifi."

"À demain, _(I'll see you tomorrow)_ " Fifi said with a nod and beautiful smile. "And merci, for remembering my roses."

Fifi turned and started down the sidewalk in the direction that led to the City Dump, where her warm, pink Cadillac was waiting. Her white scarf sleeve fell down her shoulder and graced against her rosy pink dress, so that she looked like a lone flower amongst the white snow, her large tail waving gently as she walked.

Meanwhile, Hamton was fumbling to find his voice. Then, before he lost his nerve which fought to keep him silent, he called out, "Hey, Fifi?"

She stopped and turned to look back, smiling. "Oui, Hamton?"

He stared at her and her at him. The street was empty of moving cars. There was no sound at all except for the cold winter breeze, whispering over Hamton's shoulders like a hiss.

Hamton insides spiraled like a mad twister of beautiful color. His tongue seemed to freeze inside his mouth. He knew what he wanted to say, but all he managed to get out was, "Uh. . ."

Fifi's smile fell. She tilted her head, staring in confusion.

Hamton's brain was going haywire. He couldn't seem to breathe. There was only one thing he could think of.

"See you tomorrow!" he cried, so hoarsely it was almost a yelp. Then, without thinking, he turned and sprinted away down the sidewalk. With one final look back, he saw Fifi still standing there, holding her roses and Plucky's list, watching as Hamton ran around the corner, that confused look still etched upon her beautiful face.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome.**


	4. A Quiet Evening

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 _A Quiet Evening  
_  
 _~Dec. 1st~_

"Stupid!" Hamton muttered angrily to himself. "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"

Every so often, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a few people staring at him as he trekked down the sidewalk, but Hamton didn't care. No amount of curious looks could've matched the weight or the effect Hamton felt from the way Fifi had reacted. True, she hadn't really said or done anything other than look at him questionably, but that didn't make Hamton feel any better. His face was burning in the cold December air, and it didn't help that Fifi's curious face kept flitting in and out of his mind like a beautiful plumed bird.

 _She must think something's wrong with me_ , Hamton thought with a moan, his palm pressing into his face.

Perhaps he was overreacting to the awkward scene, but, on the other hand, it was difficult to think the other way. For one, Hamton had said "See you tomorrow" twice and that was most definitely something to raise an eyebrow at, if not make it obvious that there was something else he wanted to say. And there _was_ something else he wanted to say, but to say it aloud and to Fifi's face. . . .

Hamton sighed heavily and looked up from the ground. He had left the business side of Acme Acres and was now walking down the wide, snow-laden country road. He was in sight of his neighborhood; it was only a stretch away. Hamton let out a breath of relief at the thought of his comfortable little house. After such an embarrassment, some alone time would be lovingly welcome, and having no homework to do was another plus.

Moving forward, he glanced in the direction of the Acme Forest. Snow laid atop all the bare tree branches and there was hardly a spot of green to be seen on any of the tall pines. Hamton vaguely wondered how deep the snow was in there and whether or not Buster and Babs had trouble walking through it. Perhaps the trees gave the trails some shelter, or perhaps Buster and Babs just didn't let it bother them and they simply hopped across it, their large feet working like snowshoes. The funny thought made Hamton smile a little, almost enough to make him forget his recent humiliation. Almost. . . .

Upon reaching the outside of his house, Hamton stopped by the mailbox. He took a moment to brush off the snow that had mounted on top of the wooden box, then pulled down the lid and reached inside. He pulled out a single envelope addressed to him.

The return address in the letter's upper left-hand corner showed it had come from the Acme Travel Bureau, alongside a PO Box number Hamton knew by heart.

Hamton gave a weak smile, knowing what the envelope contained. As heavy as his embarrassment may feel, seeing his name written in the familiar handwriting was like a pat on the back, reassuring him that tomorrow will be better.

His letter in hand, gripped due the cold winter air, Hamton quickly walked to the house's front door and pulled his house key out from his coat pocket. He inserted it into each of the two locks, both of which gave comforting clicks, then he turned the knob and the door swung open. Inside, he hung his up winter coat and hat on two of the nearby hooks.

The house was warm, quiet, and all the lights were off — exactly as Hamton left it that morning. Looking up at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was 4:00.

He rushed to his room to deposit his unopened letter on his desk, deciding to read it later as a treat before or after dinner. Then he headed for the kitchen, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge, then walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. He reached into the side pocket of his overalls and, gritting his teeth, tugged out Plucky's Christmas list and threw it onto the seat beside him.

Hamton sunk into the couch's back cushion and stared at the TV's blank, reflective screen. He supposed he 'ought to turn it on and find something to watch, but he found the activity running inside his head enough to occupy his time with. Leisurely, he laid back and sipped from his soda, barely tasting it. He gave a soundless sigh and closed his eyes, allowing his memory to take over.

He was back in the school's dimly lit auditorium, sitting between Buster and Shirley, and the overhead spotlight was following Fifi as she sang "Habanera."

Abruptly, the scene changed, and now he was walking down the sidewalks into the city, Fifi's dress a semi-dark pink against the snowy streets and frosted buildings. Then, he and his friends were at Frosty's, eating ice cream and talking. And finally, he was alone with Fifi on the sidewalk, his cheeks holding a warmth much different than that from the ice cream parlor.

It was here that Hamton's thinking came to a halt, his heart beating significantly louder than usual. He was gazing into Fifi's soft, silky face, everything about her distinct and familiar: her pink bow at the side of her lilac hair; her white, furry cheeks and cute pink nose; her violet eyes like sparkling amethysts. . . .

Hamton awoke, his mouth hanging lopsided.

"Huh?" he muttered sleepily. He was looking down, bleary-eyed, at his soda can, still clutched in his hand. Judging by how light it felt, the can was almost empty.

Hamton's eyes shot open. He was back on the living room couch, in front of the still inactive TV, his tired face reflecting back at him in the screen. The light outside the window was dimmer now, the sky a very dim blue and a tiny sliver of golden orange was all that remained of the sun. Turning to the clock, Hamton saw that it was now 5:30 in the evening.

With a slight yawn, Hamton got up from the couch, drank the last of the can's lukewarm soda, and dropped it into the kitchen's recycling bin.

Stretching his stiff arms, Hamton decided now was as good at time as any to have dinner. He pulled open the fridge and stared at what was available. The fridge was mostly empty, except for a loaf of bread, some vegetables, a few slices of chicken, and an unopened bottle of carrot juice — courtesy of Buster and Babs before Thanksgiving break.

Pulling out the bread, then the chicken and vegetables, Hamton thought a couple sandwiches would be good enough for tonight and made a mental note to go grocery shopping tomorrow after school. In order to do that, however. . . .

He returned to his bedroom, grabbed the letter off his desk, walked back to kitchen table and tore the envelope open. He sat down and unfolded the two-page letter.

 _Dear Hamton,_

 _It was so wonderful to see you this Thanksgiving. Your father and I hope your stomach ache didn't last too long. We'll have to be more careful next time about how much turkey we serve. Sometimes too much is just too much, even for us pigs._

Hamton rolled his eyes. It wasn't his fault his mother's cooking was superb, or that he had an appetite like he did. In his opinion, it was just part of being a pig.

He returned to the letter.

 _Anyway, sweetie, here's this week's grocery money. Use it well and try and buy foods that are more healthy if you can. I hope you don't find that offensive, but it does pay to have a balanced diet. All the same, don't let yourself starve. You can keep whatever's leftover as always._

 _Me and your father will be stopping by next week to check in on you, so be prepared to see us then. We'll have us a nice dinner and catch up with each other and what's been going on. We also need to discuss what we're going to do for Christmas._

 _Things are all right on our end. Same old same old, you know. Our last few brochures sold very well and the Travel Bureau even gave us a raise; first time in about five years! Winter is off to a decent start, and, as far as we can tell, things in the world are as Looney as ever. I swear, though, some of these people we meet really need to grow a funny bone. It would do them a world of improvement, I think personally._

 _Take care of yourself, sweetie. Keep up with your homework, spend time with your friends, and remember, Hamton, if you don't write back to us, we'll call the police._

 _Love you,_

 _Mom and Dad_

 _P.S. - In your reply, please include possible gift ideas, if you have any._

Hamton reached into the envelope the letter came in and pulled out a check written for ninety dollars. It was the same amount his mother and father always sent him each week — more than plenty to pay for the food Hamton consumed, along with a little extra for his own use.

All these thoughts about food made Hamton's stomach growl. So, not wasting a minute more, he put together two large chicken sandwiches on wheat with tomatoes, onions, and baby spinach. Pouring himself a big glass of carrot juice, Hamton seated himself at the table, laid a napkin across his lap, and ate dinner with nothing but a ticking clock and his own munching for company.

* * *

After finishing his sandwiches and juice, Hamton washed his plate and glass in the sink, wiped off the table and chair, then headed down the hall and to his bedroom. There he placed Plucky's enormous list, his parents' letter and the ninety-dollar check down onto his desk. Then he walked to his bed and sat down on the edge.

He eyed his room lazily. Now that dinner was over and he had no homework, Hamton didn't know what else to do.

He wasn't tired and it was still too early to go to bed. He would write his response to his parents soon, but didn't feel up to it right now. He supposed he could call his friends on the telephone and chat (something he hardly ever did), but Hamton somehow doubted they would be available at the moment. Buster and Babs might be visiting each other, Plucky was probably playing his video games, Shirley was most likely deep into her evening meditation or tarot readings, and Fifi . . . well, if Hamton had trouble talking to her on the sidewalk, his chances on the phone were just as slim.

He sighed, got up, and walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass.

The streetlamps outside were alight, glowing white in the chilly darkness. The light seemed to reach far, reflecting off the snow on the streets, roofs, and tree branches. Other than two frosty cars making their way home, there was no activity to be seen on this cold, quiet, winter night.

Backing away from the window, Hamton saw the smudge left behind by his head. He bent over, picked up the bottle of ACME Window-Clear he kept in his room, sprayed a few squirts, then wiped the glass smooth with the rag that had been resting on the bottle. Smiling lightly at the now completely clear window, he put the Window-Clear back on the carpet, then moved back to his bed and sat down again on the edge.

He sighed.

Eventually his eyes roamed to his nightstand. He reached out and picked up a framed photograph sitting beside his lamp and alarm clock. Holding it in both hands, he stared down at it.

Lined in a row, six young friends were standing together, all arm in arm, smiling at the camera. They were inside a TV studio, the Warner Bros. logo hanging over their heads.

Hamton was standing at the right-most side in the picture. Two green fingers stuck up behind his head in a mock form of rabbit ears, which belonged to Plucky. Hamton had, at first, felt annoyed when the picture was developed, but he let it pass as reasonably funny. It was just like Plucky to act that way, whose jokes never meant any real harm.

At the very center of the group were Buster and Babs. Their smiles were much softer and affectionate, due to their cheeks nuzzling each other and their hands joined in a kind of line which separated the girls and the boys.

Continuing to the left, Shirley was levitating an inch in midair, her legs folded, her smile calm.

And at the very left of the group, on Hamton's exact opposite, stood Fifi. Her smile was soft and sweet, exactly like it had been today.

The photo had been taken over a year ago, a few days after _Tiny Toon Adventures_ was officially called to a close. The day had been bittersweet: Hamton and his friends had had a lot of fun being actors, and now they would only be remembered in reruns.

But there was a bright side, too, as his friends reminded him. They now had their whole lives ahead of them. Babs joked about how they could finally have a day where cameras weren't metaphorically or literally shoved into their faces.

And Hamton had to agree. He still had the memories, and best of all, he still had his friends.

He smiled gently at the year-old picture. Not much had changed with his friends when it came to appearance, although Hamton could tell they had all grown a few inches taller since then. Outside of looks, however, a lot more had come to pass.

As seen from this morning, Buster and Babs were now openly going steady: holding hands, walking together, and, without any embarrassment at all, kissing when the time was just right. After years of hearing the two say 'No relation', it was plain to everyone — even the blind — that there _was_ a relationship between the two rabbits. That aside, Buster and Babs were the same lovable, funny bunnies they had always been: Buster, calm and laid-back, but always eager for fun; and Babs, zany and active, and always there for her best friends.

Plucky was pretty much the same old smart-mouthed, self-absorbed, yet well-meaning friend, though he was becoming, thankfully, a little less arrogant and _somewhat_ more aware of his actions — though admittedly a little slow to realize, as proven when he accidentally offended Shirley at Frosty's today.

Shirley was still her mystical but interesting self, and was trying with profound patience to have a relationship with Plucky. The two got along well and they certainly had feelings for each other, though Hamton felt Plucky had a lot to understand when it came to commitment. And, similarly, Shirley needed to keep her aura from becoming hotly tempered whenever something didn't quite go as the cosmos supposedly told her.

As for Fifi. . . .

Hamton stared intently at Fifi's image and tried comparing her to the Fifi he knew now. Though it was cheesy to think it, the only difference Hamton could note was that the present day Fifi was even more gorgeous than she was a year ago: a few inches taller, hair a little longer, tail a lot more huge and fluffy.

Personality-wise, Fifi was pretty much the same: a good student, a dear friend, and, as anyone with eyes and ears could see or hear, always longing for the person she could call her own — her elusive skunk-hunk.

It was with both happiness as well shame that Hamton secretly thanked Fifi for remaining single, because, out of everything that might've changed in Hamton during his time off _Tiny Toons_ , the most notable thing to him was how he felt towards Fifi.

In a strange, unexplainable way, Hamton supposed these feelings had always been there and had grown stronger over this past year, today being the perfect example. He had felt his heart beat warmly when he directed Fifi towards the school entrance and he remembered how hard it was to speak to her on the sidewalk, what with those purple eyes and that soft face staring right back at him. . . .

Finally, Hamton looked to himself: the pig frozen forever in photo representation. Other than height, nothing had changed as far as Hamton was aware. He was the same pig who loved a clean house and a full stomach — not much else to be said . . . except when it came to a certain skunk.

Hamton shook his head to clear it and placed the framed photo back on the nightstand. Burying his face into his hands, he sighed and tried not to think. He managed to clear his mind of Fifi's image, but the lyrics and voice of "Habanera" were still sweeping through his ears, and there, in her lovely rose-pink dress, Fifi appeared again.

To fight the thoughts his mind seemed bent on replaying a hundred times over, Hamton forced himself onto his feet and walked to his desk where he usually did his homework. Seated in his chair, he grabbed a few blank sheets of paper, picked up a pen, and started to write.

 _Dear Mom and Dad,_

 _I got your letter and your grocery check, so please, PLEASE, don't call the police. Really, we don't need to give the Acme Press another overreaction. We see enough of those in every issue, and I don't want my image added to the hype._

 _Me and my stomach are doing fine. Your cooking was wonderful as always, Mom, and I promise to buy some healthy food when I go shopping. I don't mind eating healthy, to be honest. You'd be surprised how filling vegetables can be._

"When you eat enough of them," Hamton said aloft.

 _Things are going all right here at home. Nothing much to talk about. School's pretty much the same, but it's bound to get busy with the winter exams coming up, as Granny so firmly reminded us first day back._

 _By the way, Bugs Bunny and the other teachers are planning a party on the 24_ _th_ _at 6:00 in the evening. My friends are all thinking of going, so I think I will too._

 _I look forward to seeing you two. Call to let me know what day you have in mind. Can't wait._

 _Love,_

 _Hamton_

 _P.S. - As for gifts, I'll be happy with just about anything. Maybe a souvenir from one of your trips._

Hamton gripped the paper in both hands and reread what he wrote. He probably could've given the letter a bit more thought than the drab to-the-point sentences he had jotted, but, then again, there really wasn't much else to tell. So, grabbing a blank envelope, he sealed the letter inside, wrote out his mom and dad's business address, and placed the stamped envelope next to his grocery check. Then he returned to the living room and wiled away his remaining time watching TV, changing the channel whenever the current program fell short of his interest. Not being assigned any homework, Hamton didn't know what else to do.

By 10:00, he was thoroughly tired and decided to go to bed. After changing into his pajamas and brushing his teeth, Hamton turned off all the lights in the house, made sure the front door was locked, and returned to his bedroom.

Climbing into bed, Hamton took one last look at the photo of his best friends. He gave them all a nod in wishing them goodnight, then he turned off the lamp and his room went dark. He closed his eyes and relaxed onto his pillow, his last thoughts for the night on Fifi as she stared out at him from beyond the picture frame.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. The first day of December has concluded. What will the other thirty hold in store for Hamton and his friends?**


	5. Two Ounces, Four Digits

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 _Two Ounces, Four Digits  
_  
 _~Dec. 2nd~_

Before heading out for school the next day, Hamton rummaged through a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small, crisp envelope buried beneath a pile of old letters from his parents. It was marked "For My Friends."

Opening the flap, he pulled out a small stack of money and counted it. It totaled to seventy-five dollars, the same amount he had counted up last October for which he had saved for the winter holidays.

Certainly seventy-five dollars would be enough to buy his friends' their Christmas gifts. He planned on baking them himself, and even with the upcoming holidays, the ingredients would be around the same price range as usual, which Hamton had a thorough knowledge of after grocery shopping so many times.

Placing the money back into the "For My Friends" envelope, Hamton hid it back under the pile of old family letters he kept in his drawer, including the one he received from his parents the other day.

It felt good to be prepared, but Hamton could only say he was eighty percent ready for the holidays. As though the reminder were a looming shadow, he was forced again to accept that he still had no clue what present to get for Fifi.

With a sigh, he left his bedroom, made sure the all lights in the house were off, pulled on his winter coat and hat, checked that he had his parent's grocery check in his pocket, then finally stepped outside, locking the front door behind him. He then moved on down the block and dropped his response to his parents' letter into a local mailbox.

Like yesterday, the morning was cold: snow still covered the ground and most of neighborhood houses. It was partly cloudy and the sun was currently hiding behind a large, luminescent white cloud. Hamton pressed on down the plowed country lane towards the city, his hands in his coat pockets and his mind full of questions.

What gift could he buy for Fifi? What would she want? It had to be something good, something he knew, without a doubt, she would love.

Hamton thought back to last year's Christmas. He had secretly given Fifi _two_ presents, though nobody — Fifi included — had ever found out.

The first gift was a box of French chocolates that Fifi had expressed a fondness for. She thanked Hamton with a two-way present: one, a deep-dish apple pie; the other, a very warm, wonderful hug.

The second gift, the one Hamton secretly planted, rendered Fifi utterly speechless: a huge bouquet of colorful flowers as big as Fifi herself. It had cost five times the amount of the French chocolates, but the effect was worth every penny. Having no tag of who the flowers were from, Fifi assumed the anonymous giver was a secret, elusive boy skunk, adoring her from afar like some shy Romeo. Her smile tender, Fifi embraced the bouquet as small hearts floated up over her head, having no clue that the admirer was standing three feet away, dressed in overalls.

Hamton sighed happily, savoring the memory, but at hearing a car whoosh by down the snowy street, he cleared his head and saw that he was now on the first city block. Acme Loo's clock tower was visible beyond the roofs of a few local businesses. It read 7:40.

Sticking to the clean sidewalk, Hamton thought again to what he could buy for Fifi, his memory returning to yesterday's conversation in Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor. He thought hard, thinking of all Fifi had said when —

"Bonjour, Hamton!"

Hamton's heart gave a hard lurch, for what he heard did not come from within his mind.

Turning, the cold air suddenly feeling less cold, Hamton found he had arrived outside the entrance to the Acme City Dump. A freshly-made snowman, smiling and with a nametag that said "Parson Brown," stood at the side of a shoveled pathway which led to the passenger-side door of a pink Cadillac. Unlike the other broken-down, rusted cars around it, it was clean and dusted free of snow, all four of its tires missing and axels resting on cinderblocks. There, cheerfully waving at Hamton by the door, was Fifi, her white scarf around her neck. A school book held under her arm, she ran up to him.

"Oh, uh . . . h-hi, Fifi," Hamton spluttered with embarrassment. He had to stop spacing out as he walked. Almost straying blindly into traffic was one thing, but to wake up and find Fifi so near to him was worthy of a heart attack, evidenced by how hard it now felt for Hamton to breath.

They both began walking down the sidewalk in the direction of Acme Loo. It felt as though something were burning inside Hamton's face, but he forced himself to get a grip. He and Fifi were just walking to school after all; they had done it a million times before with their , he calmed his voice. "H-How are you this morning, Fifi?"

"Ah, marvelous, mon amie," said Fifi, her French accent as bright as ever. "I had ze most wonderful dream last night. But, oh," Fifi's smile fell to one of mild disappointment, "so sad it was _only_ a dream. . . ."

"Why?" asked Hamton, very curious at the low look on Fifi's face. "What was the dream about?" But Hamton thought he already knew. . . .

"I dreamt it was Christmas morning, and sitting under ze tree, wrapped up all elegant in bright paper, was _him_." She sighed lovingly. "Mon petit skunk-hunk."

Fifi floated a foot off the ground and drifted in midair, caught in another one of her romantic daydreams. Meanwhile, something inside Hamton seemed to groan, and the hollow weight only worsened as Fifi continued with, "Hugging, and kissing, and togezher. . . ."

"Sounds wonderful . . ." Hamton replied in a hollow voice, his eyes trailing the sidewalk. The cold air was suddenly upon him again . . . as too was an odor that Hamton only just noticed.

"Uh . . . Fifi?" he called up to her. She was still suspended in midair, humming with her eyes closed.

Hamton's eyes went wide, for a green mist was drifting from Fifi's tail.

"Fifi! Your tail!"

Fifi's eyes shot open, as though being slapped awake. She saw where Hamton was pointing. Alarmed, she dropped back to the snowy Earth and quickly fanned the smell away with her school book.

"Sorry," Hamton said sheepishly. "Hope I didn't wreck your romantic moment."

"Oh, no, no, do not be sorry," said Fifi, running a hand through her periwinkle hair. "I am thankful you did. You saved me from causing a scene."

"I don't think it would've been too big a deal here," said Hamton. "Besides, there's no one close to us at the moment." He pointed out the closest person, who was a block away and looking in their direction, his fingers held up to his nose. "So, uh . . . shall we get back to. . . ." he nudged his head in the direction of Acme Loo.

Fifi nodded. As they started towards school again, Fifi gripped her book in both arms and hugged it against her chest.

"Le sigh . . ." Hamton's head jerked up and turned to Fifi. "As I was saying," and she turned to look at Hamton, "zhough it was only a dream, I know it cannot be _too_ far from reality." Fifi wasn't quite enamored as she said this, but there was a notable twinkle of determination in her bright violet eyes that Hamton could've spot from a mile away. "I know he is out zhere," she said fondly. "I know I shall find my darling skunk one day. . . ."

"Yeah . . ." said Hamton, his voice controlled. "I'm . . . I'm sure you will."

Hamton continued walking, determined not to look at Fifi.

"Hamton? Are you all right?"

"Huh?" He shot his gaze back to Fifi and saw her looking at him with concern. Giving a pretend smile, he said, "Oh yeah, Fifi, I'm fine. I just have a bit on my mind . . . _And heart_ ," these last two words said in his thoughts.

"What about?" Fifi asked with a frown. She seemed to know there was something else bothering him.

"Oh . . . well," Hamton hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "I'm . . . just worried about what to buy our friends for this Christmas. . . ."

Hamton felt a tightening inside his chest at these words. It wasn't a complete lie, he told himself. He was, indeed, worried about buying a gift, but only for the girl walking next to him.

"Oh," said Fifi, sounding a little surprised at first, but then looking relieved. "I would not worry if I were you, Hamton. I am sure you will find all you need in plenty of time. It is only ze second of December, after all."

"Yeah, you're right. Thanks," said Hamton, warmth surging at how kindly Fifi spoke to him. He then took the moment to happily admire the sparkle of frost on the windows of a few parked cars.

A moment of blissful silence was shared, and then. . .

"Hamton?" asked Fifi. "Are you cold?"

"Cold?" he asked. "I can feel the chill on the air, but otherwise I'm fine. Why?"

"Because . . . your face is _very_ red . . ."

Hamton stopped breathing. His mind whirled with panic and he quickly said, "Oh, yeah! Yeah! I guess it is pretty cold out. Much colder than I thought! I guess I just didn't notice." He then pulled the folded collar of his winter coat up over his cheeks, halfway concealing his face.

"There," he said in a muffled voice, "much better." He then grinned, feeling quite stupid.

Fifi continued to stare curiously at him. Slowly, she turned her gaze forward again, still looking slightly baffled.

If Hamton could have sunk lower into his coat, he would have. His face was burning so much that the cold temperature was almost nonexistent. Thankfully, a minute later, Buster and Babs walked up, hand in hand, and greeted Hamton and Fifi, joining them in their walk to school. Not long after that, Plucky and Shirley joined the group as well.

Hamton was thankful there were others now to provide conversation and help push away any further awkwardness. He and Fifi now stood on the opposite sides of their friends.

When they came within range of the school arch, Hamton gave Fifi one last glimpse, and, at that same instant, Fifi looked his way as well. She gave him a friendly smile, then turned her sights forward again.

Hamton's face continued to warm him all the way to the school doors.

* * *

With much thanks, the awkward silence from the morning walk did not follow Hamton into the school day. Within minutes he was back on perfect speaking terms with Fifi and everyone else. The morning went by normally, or as normally as it could for a Toon, which, to be honest, was hardly ever normal.

The day started with Prof. Porky Pig's Physical Comedy class, in which Porky demonstrated the best ways to fall down stairs without hurting yourself, as well as how to swallow oneself and reappear completely intact.

Next, Prof. Leghorn continued with Hound Teasing, which was mostly his recollections of spanking a certain dog with a broken fence post.

"PETA would have a field day," Buster muttered. "Animals hitting other animals."

Prof. Daffy Duck's hands waved madly around as he lectured advice on Spotlight Stealing, which, while not entirely wise, or safe, or effective, or even useful, proved to be quite entertaining, seeing as how the negative results affected Daffy and nobody else. The rotten tomatoes had to hit _someone_ after all. . . .

When the bell rang at Noon signaling lunch, Hamton went a lot slower than he usually did when his favorite time of the school day arrived. He had to redo his locker combination twice due to his mind being someplace else — or rather, on _someone_ else — causing his concentration to slip and forget which number on the lock's dial came next. Putting his books away, he joined his five friends as they walked to the cafeteria, the person whom Hamton's thoughts were centered on only a few feet away, her large purple and white tail bobbing behind her as she walked.

"So, I thought, if he really wanted to steal _my_ spotlight," Plucky said with a sneaky look, waving around his half-eaten sandwich five minutes later, "I say, why not give it to him? Too bad I forgot to mention that the spotlight I switched was actually a high-powered, ozone-penetrating sunlamp. HA! Am I right?"

Nobody laughed.

"Ah, come on, lighten up," Plucky said plaintively, before giving a quick laugh. "Get it? 'Lighten up?' But seriously, chill. Like any Toon, he was all right after five seconds. Besides, if it'll make you all feel better, he got me back with —"

The others continued to talk while Hamton ate in silence, not really paying much attention to them. He was too busy wondering what present he could give Fifi for Christmas that would let her know just how much he felt. While pondering, he thought back to this morning. A moment later, he wished he hadn't.

 _Mon petit skunk-hunk_ , Fifi had said with tender adoration.

In his mind, Hamton imagined Fifi holding hands with an unknown, handsome, all-together perfect male skunk – someone tall with enough muscles to make Hercules jealous.

Hamton imagined Fifi's eyes changing to hearts, her cheek nuzzling against her perfect man, and with that, Hamton's appetite disappeared completely, regardless that he had only taken two bites from his sandwich, leaving the rest of his lunch completely untouched.

"Hamton, you okay?" Babs asked half an hour later as they walked to their one o'clock class. "You didn't eat very much today."

"I . . . just don't feel very hungry," said Hamton, turning his face forward so he didn't have to see Babs' suspicious look. He had no interest in telling anyone what had robbed him of his hunger, not even his best friends, fearing how they would act if they knew.

The rest of the school day passed in a vague blur. The desire to pay attention in Cartoon Logic to what made a well-developed cartoon character seemed less important to Hamton as his thoughts continued to dwell of Fifi. Prof. Granny had to shout Hamton's name three times before he snapped out of his self-induced trance and answered his Calculation's problem incorrectly. Thankfully, though, given how complicated Granny often made her pop quizzes, it didn't attract too much attention. Out of the corner of his eyes, however, Hamton thought he saw some of his friends give him a peculiar look.

Hamton's attention was a little more focused in Prof. Taz's Destruction class, though this was mainly due to the racket caused by crates breaking and the spinning spluttering from Dizzy Devil and his mentor. You couldn't risk daydreaming too much while in this class, because the alternative was getting torn to shreds or blown up. During the rare moments when Prof. Taz wore himself out and had to sit down and pant for a few minutes, Hamton went back to his unsettling vision of Fifi and her "skunk-hunk" and feeling thoroughly gloomy each time he pictured it.

Finally, there came Prof. Sylvester and his Mouse/Bird Chasing class, which was completely pointless for everyone except Furrball and Elmyra: the former because the teacher was his mentor, the latter because Elmyra couldn't get enough of the "birdy-wordies" and "mousey-wousies."

Hamton sat in his desk, his eyes forward, his mind elsewhere. By now, he was starting to feel frustrated. Now his mind was conjuring images of Fifi holding hands with a male skunk who gloated nastily in Hamton's face, all while on the beach, wearing swimsuits.

Not feeling his heart could take much more, Hamton firmly wiped his mind clean and let out a sigh so quiet, he barely felt it leave his chest.

There was no denying it. Hamton knew, from yesterday at Frosty's as well as knowing her for as long as he did, that Fifi would want nothing else for Christmas other than the person she longed for the most: her one-and-only skunk-hunk. Sadly, he, Hamton, was neither a skunk nor a hunk. What, with his chubby belly, his squiggly little tail, and the fact that he was a pig — he was the farthest thing from Fifi's dream of absolute perfection.

At long last, the minute hand on the clock hit three o'clock and the school bell rang. Without giving Prof. Sylvester the chance to explain his breakthrough on the perfect way to catch birds or mice, the students rushed out of the room, leaving behind a large dust cloud and a dozen overturned desks. Hamton went slower than the rest.

"What?" Sylvester asked, scratching his furry head with confusion. "Do I stink or something?"

Hamton, not in the mood to talk, merely shook his head, but as he left the overturned classroom, he slowed in his step and his eyes went wide. Inspiration had come to him in Prof. Sylvester's question.

 _'Do I stink or something?'_

Hamton thought back to yesterday, to when he, Fifi, and their friends were at Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor. Along with her "skunk-hunk", Hamton now remembered Fifi saying there was a perfume she might want: a gift which she had described in very loving detail, worthy enough to breath a "Le sigh" or two.

The idea nestled warmly in his brain as he joined his friends at their lockers.

"Hey, Hamton?" said Buster.

"Yeah?" he asked, pulling open his locker.

"We're going to head over to the mall and do a little window shopping. See what's available for the holiday season. Wanna come?"

Hamton stopped just as his hand had grabbed hold of his coat. He could feel excitement bubbling inside him. Without needing any time to think it over, Hamton replied, "Sure. That sounds good. If you guys don't mind, though, can we stop at the bank on the way? I need to cash my parents' check to buy groceries later this evening."

"Yeah, no problem," Buster replied. "Will you still have time to go grocery shopping afterwards, though? We're not sure how long we'll spend at the Mall."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have plenty of time left," said Hamton, pulling on his coat. "The store doesn't close until nine o'clock, and anyway, I could use a few gift ideas."

"You're not, like, the _only_ one," said Shirley, zipping up her coat and shooting a dirty look in Plucky's direction. "Someone, like, really needs to get some ideas of what _someone_ who _likes_ him would _like_ to have."

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Hamton thought he could see Shirley's pink, ghostly aura hovering above, holding up a sign over Plucky's head, saying, "Crystal Ball," to which Plucky gave no notice.

"How about you, Fifi?" asked Babs, her winter coat on and holding Buster's hand. "What to check out the newest Christmas dresses? I know a few that would go great with your bow."

"Oh, zat _would_ be lovely," said Fifi, "but I have to work. Ze Country Club is going to be very busy now zat ze holidays are coming. Zhey want me to play ze harp every ozher day until ze last few days before Christmas."

"Oh, all right," said Babs, closing her locker. "We'll try the weekend, then."

"Oui. Zhankfully, I have _zhose_ days off. At least, I do for _zis_ weekend."

"Plucky?" said Hamton. "Don't _you_ still work at the Country Club?"

"Unfortunately," he said with a sigh. "This time of year is crazy and they want all the waiters they can get. I don't see the point, though. I mean, it's not like Weiner Burger where _anyone_ can come in. Only the people that pay can get into the Country Club. They can't need _that_ many waiters."

"I don't know, Plucky," said Buster, frowning. "The holidays are a busy time. Lots of people going out, getting ready and running all over. You might want to be prepared in case they call you in."

"Yeah, yeah," Plucky said in a bored voice. "But no bother. I don't work today, anyway."

"You do tomorrow, zhough, so do not forget," said Fifi, and she turned. "Bonne nuit, mes amies _(Good night, my friends)_. Have fun at ze mall."

She gave a final wave, which her friends returned, and she headed off towards the exit.

"Well, guys, let's go!" said Buster with gusto. "Let us yonder into that dangerous sea of avarice of early holiday shoppers, and may we not be affected, for fear we may lose sight of what truly owns the heart."

All of Buster's friends stared at him.

"You get that off a cereal box?" asked Plucky wryly.

"No," said Buster, sounding annoyed. "Just making a statement that we shouldn't get carried away with the idea of gifts."

Plucky snorted. "Yeah, like we wouldn't want to do that."

The others followed after him, shaking their heads in a way that practically said, "It's almost like he's asking for it. . . ."

* * *

The Acme Mall was busy with people by the time Hamton and his friends arrived there. They trekked past the snowy, slushy parking lot and walked eagerly into the large foyer, the warm air easing them from the chilly winter wind.

Agreeing that it would be fun to go along as a group, everyone stuck together as Buster and Plucky had the first choice in where they would window shop: a movie-slash-videogame-slash-electronics store called "Mind Controller", where they browsed amongst the newest releases from Stupendo, Microscopic, and Zony. There was even a demo station where they got to test a few titles. Hamton and Shirley lost to Buster and Plucky, their faces smug and devious, but, to everyone's surprise, Babs beat both boys single-handedly. She blew smoke from her index finger and pocketed an invisible revolver into an imaginary belt, leaving Buster and Plucky wide-eyed and opened mouthed, spluttering with shock and a low level of pride.

With the firm declaration that video games weren't that interesting right now, Buster gladly gave Babs the lead on where they would go next. Before Babs had voiced her decision, Plucky let out a groan that she would probably choose a clothing store where she and Shirley would try on outfits until the Mall closed.

Shooting Plucky nasty looks, Babs and Shirley led them, instead, to a music store called "CD's Records". There, the five of them had fun browsing through CDs, viewing old vinyl records, making towers out of old cassette tapes (all 99% off), and adoring the assortment of guitars, drums, and keyboards.

 **(Author's Note: Ah . . . memories of the 90's. . . .)**

When they had their fill of rock beats and the latest pop moves, they walked out and nearly ran into Gogo Dodo, who was doing some window shopping of his own.

"They're just flying off the shelves!" Gogo told them eagerly. "Literally!" And, to everyone's astonishment, Gogo grabbed the seven-yard glass window from CD's Records, pulled it out of the wall, and placed it into a shopping cart stuffed full of multi-sized windows, including one made of stained-glass. The cart looked tipsy, its contents leaning in all directions. "Happy Hunting!" Gogo said merrily, and he walked away with his cart in tow, humming 'The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down'.

"Wow," said Shirley, watching Gogo grab another window right out of its frame. "Even Gogo's getting in the spirits. Like, talk about contagious."

"Yep," said Buster. "That's the holidays for you. They affect us all, even the strangest of us. So, Hamton," Buster said, turning to him, "where would _you_ like to go?"

Hamton paused and pretended to think.

The truth was Hamton had known where he wanted to go before he and his friends began their chilly walk to the Mall, but couldn't think how he would explain to his friends _why_ he wanted to go there.

The place he had in mind was Shears, the Mall's largest department store, and, from past experience, it couldn't have been clearer that Hamton and his friends all thought the place to be as interesting as stale fruitcake. Hamton would normally agree, but, then again, Fifi had said she wanted a certain kind of perfume, and Shears happened to have the Mall's largest selection of perfumes. He had spent most of the time in Mind Control plotting possible excuses for wanting to pay the store a visit, but so far came up with nothing.

What on earth could he say? That he wanted to check out the perfumes? That would be putting it blunt, not to mention peculiar. And even if Hamton didn't elaborate, what would his friends say if they saw him browsing the perfumes? Babs and Shirley may not react _too_ badly except for a raised eyebrow, but Buster and Plucky would probably make a stage of it, convinced that Hamton had gone out of his mind, and what then could he say to contradict them?

"Uh . . . how about we just . . . rest for a moment?" Hamton suggested, and he pointed his thumb over to a group of long benches next to the Mall's fountain.

They all sat down on one bench, Buster and Babs right next to each other, and Plucky on one side while Shirley chose to pass the minute with some mid-air meditation.

Hamton sat on the bench's other end and stared out to the open doors of Shears, racking his brain for an excuse to go there without looking stupid. He found this difficult due to the many shoppers passing in front and behind him — talking, laughing, shopping bags crinkling and cracking. The trickling water of the Mall's fountain, though mild in volume, seemed louder at the moment. And, not too far away, Hamton could've sworn he heard glass breaking and Gogo saying, "I break it, I buy it!"

With a sigh, Hamton leaned forward on the bench and rested his chin in both hands.

"Something on your mind, Hamton?" asked Babs, eyeing him with concern.

Trying not to express his loss for ideas, Hamton calmly admitted, "Yeah, you could say that."

"Is it about Fifi?" Buster asked.

Hamton shot up so fast, he nearly fell off the bench.

"What?" His voice was hollow and anxious. His insides were constricting. He may very well have been punched in the stomach.

"Fifi," Buster repeated, his voice showing no tint of mockery.

"We know you're thinking about her, Hamton," said Babs gently. Off to the side, Shirley and Plucky were looking at him with similar expressions.

Hamton stared, bewildered. He felt sick. He couldn't form words and all sound in the Mall diminished. All he could do was look, wide-eyed and shocked, at the calm, strangely understanding faces of his friends.

"H-How. . ." Hamton managed to force out. "How did you guys —"

"Hamton," said Buster, shaking his head, "we hang out every day. We'd have to blind not to notice the way you act when you're around Fifi."

" _Or_ the way you look at her," Babs added with a soft smile.

Hamton's face was burning. His mouth was totally dry. He turned to look at the floor, trying, at least, to partially conceal his embarrassment.

But then he felt Babs touch his shoulder and he looked up at her.

"Hamton, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said kindly. "We're your friends."

"Does Fifi know?" Hamton asked. The idea was too unfathomable to imagine.

"We haven't told her, if that's what you mean," said Shirley, now floating in front of Hamton. "Like, we would never do that, not with a friend's secret."

"Yeah," said Plucky. "I mean, I might have a big mouth, but even _I_ know how to keep a secret."

Babs craned her neck to look at him, an eyebrow raised, clearly unconvinced.

"What?" Plucky asked indignantly. "I mean it! I won't say a word."

Hamton, surprised but relieved, asked, "So all of you knew?"

They all nodded.

Hamton opened his mouth, but no words escaped.

"Hamton, it's okay," said Babs softly. "We'll keep it secret."

"You will?"

"Of course we will," said Buster. "What are friends for?"

Babs, Shirley, and Plucky all nodded in agreement.

The sounds of the Mall-goers continued, their chatter and bags passing left and right, and the jets of the fountain spurting water. It all sounded less noisy than it had a minute ago.

A great surge of warmth flooded through Hamton. "Thanks guys," he said with a smile.

"Don't sweat it," said Plucky. "So," he clapped his green, feathered hands together, "what do you plan on getting Fifi?"

Everyone turned to him in surprise.

"What?" Plucky asked, looking confused. "If I were Hamton, I'd want to get the girl I liked something that would show how I feel."

Shirley, Hamton noticed, looked a little disgruntled at this comment.

"So, like, what _do_ you have in mind, Hamton?" Shirley asked, her voice slightly strained with annoyance.

"Well . . ." Hamton hesitated at first, but then decided there was no need to make excuses, not now that his friends knew how he felt. "I was thinking about that perfume Fifi told us about. Remember, when were at Frosty's yesterday?"

"Oh yeah," said Babs brightly. "Fifi told me and Shirley about it, too. We talked a little over the phone last night, and from the sounds of it, she really likes it."

"Yeah," said Shirley, "Fifi was all, like, 'Oh, ze aroma must be, like, as sweet as music, and music ze the fruit of love and some junk'." She stopped short and saw her friends looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Well, it was something along those lines."

"Well, I think that settles it," said Buster, sounding confident. "I think you know the perfect gift for her, Hamton. Want to go check it out?"

Hamton nodded.

"Well, then," said Babs resolutely, getting to her large rabbit feet, "let's head on over to Shears. Best perfume line in the Mall."

"Shears?" said Plucky with disgust. "That boring clothes store?"

"It's not so bad now, Plucky," said Babs. "Not since they started adding a few more colors and styles to their racks. You might want to consider browsing around yourself, I mean . . . what, you've had that same white tank top for _how_ many years now?"

Not answering but looking a bit stony, Plucky stood up from the bench with the others. Shirley lowered herself back onto the floor beside him.

"She does have a point," Hamton heard Shirley mutter to Plucky. Again, Plucky didn't say anything, but rolled his eyes.

The five of them walked the short distance to Shears, whose wide windows stretched all along the walls — one of which was missing from its frame.

On several of the remaining windows, Hamton noticed a number of posters advertising an assortment of leather jackets and silk dresses. A few of the glass panes also depicted photographs of jewelry, hats, and shoes, all worn by models with flawless, wax-like skin.

Hamton's attention, however, fell upon an elegant black poster hanging near the open doors. Compared to the other posters, it stood out like a dark, sparkling gem. It showed an enlarged, glass bottle in the shape of a heart, its color a bright purple, and was set with a golden cap. Above this bottle was smooth, elegant writing which read:

 **Shamel**

 _ **Du Cœur**_

 _Let Your Love Show_

"This is the perfume Fifi talked about, right?" Hamton asked to Babs and Shirley, pointing at the poster.

"Yep, that's it," said Babs. "Oh, and look Hamton!" She pointed excitedly at the bottom of the poster where a smaller sign read:

 **ON SALE FOR THE HOLIDAYS**

"Talk about lucky," said Buster, reading the sign. "Looks like you'll make Fifi one happy girl, Hamton."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Plucky, staring at the poster. "'Coerce'?" he said questionably, reading off the perfume's name. "That makes it sound like it'll burn you."

Buster, his eyes lowered in exasperation, said, "It's pronounced, 'Doo Care', Plucky. It's French perfume . . . I think."

Plucky looked at the title again, and comprehension dawned on his face. "Oooooh. Y-Yeah . . . I-I knew that. Easy to mistake it, though. I mean, the rest of the poster is in English, after all."

"Like, enough language lessons," said Shirley. "Let's go in before it gets any later."

They walked in, and at once, the familiar, fresh smell of brand new clothes and shoes flew to their noses. Among the scents, Hamton could smell the tell-tale aroma of perfumes. And indeed, over in the opposite corner of the store, Hamton could just make out the glass cases and stacked boxes where he knew his gift for Fifi was waiting.

He, Buster, and Plucky walked a few steps forward before realizing that two of their group weren't with them.

"Babs, Shirley, come on!" called Buster.

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Coming! Sorry!" said Babs, and she and Shirley ran back toward the boys after being distracted by a rather cute looking blouse hanging on a rack beside the doors. "Just . . . checking, you know."

"Yeah, typical girls," sighed Plucky as he walked. "Luckily us guys don't get sidetracked by things like — wow, look at that jacket!" he exclaimed, pointing towards a weathered jacket covered in decals one would find on motorcycles.

Smirking, Babs shook her head and sighed, "Ah, typical boys. Always getting sidetracked by something flashy and shabby."

Plucky, realizing his own words had been turned on him, fell silent and grumpy.

But Hamton had no time for trivial objects like purposefully worn-out jackets and grass-green blouses. The only thing in his sight right now was the perfume section.

Flowers, potent spices, and aromas too mixed and complex to fully describe — that was the sensation for Hamton and his friends when they approached the brightly colored section of Shears. There were women, girls, and a few choice men, sampling perfume and cologne.

Buster and Plucky both stopped and took a slow inhale.

Buster exhaled with pleasure, "Wow . . . something smells good."

Plucky, however, gave an irritable twitch. "Egh!" he shuddered, sticking out his tongue. "Smells like spiced carrots mixed with dandelion."

"Well, that's perfume for you," said Babs, clearly comfortable and delighted by the surrounding scents. "Each one is uniquely designed for a particular sort of girl, so she can charm that special someone of hers," and as she said this, she snuggled up to Buster. "You know that scent, Buster. Remember?"

"Yeah. . .," he said, pondering for a moment. And then he smiled. "Yeah! You wore it on our date last summer!"

Babs nodded. Hamton could tell by the look in friends' eyes that they were remembering what must've been a very special night.

"They do say your smell is the sense closest to your memory," Shirley commented. "That goes for all smells, the good and the rank. Know what I mean, Plucky?"

Plucky looked suddenly annoyed. "If you're talking about that one date of ours, I'm sorry! How was I supposed to know you thought that cologne was awful?"

"I didn't," said Shirley crossly, crossing her arms. "I just thought you used too much!"

"Well, if you ask me, I didn't need it," said Plucky. "Besides," — he pressed his green hands to his checks — "it really burned!"

As interesting as it was to hear his friends' different reactions to the wonders and frowns of aromas, Hamton couldn't suppress an impatient clearing of his throat.

"Sorry," he said sincerely. "But Shirley's right, it's starting to get late, and we all got homework that needs doing."

"Ah, don't sweat it, Hamton," said Plucky. "We got time. Let's just find you that perfume."

"Like, there it is!" said Shirley, pointing her finger.

Inside of a glass case were a number of shiny black and purple boxes with white writing. And, set in the case's middle, on a tiny pedestal, stood a purple bottle in the shape of a heart. Hamton walked close enough to the case to see his transparent reflection in the glass.

The bottle was as large as a baseball, its glass crafted like crystal with a golden cap. The words "Du Cœur" were set in the heart's center, elegantly written in white as though from an inkwell pen.

"Anyone know what it smells like?" asked Buster. "Babs?

Babs looked around the case. "Hmm . . . I don't see any test cards. Excuse me, miss?"

A young woman in her twenties, dressed in a Shear's uniform, approached them. She looked a little bored. "Yeah?"

"Do you have any test cards for this perfume right here, Du Cœur?" she asked, pointing at the bottle behind glass.

The woman's bored expression fell and turned to confusion. A second later, she began to laugh so hard, she had to grab hold of the counter for support, nearly knocking off the fifty-percent-off sign. "You-ha ha- you want to test -ha ha HA HA HA —"

She continued to laugh and laugh until she was so lost for breath, she just waved Babs off and walked away, her amused grin still plastered to her face.

"Must be something special if they're not even allowing customers to sample it," said Hamton, more eager than ever to buy the perfume.

"Hold on, wait a minute!" said Plucky, eyeing the perfume bottle with something that resembled irritation. "You mean Fifi wants this stuff and she doesn't even know what it smells like?" He turned to Babs and Shirley. "Okay, I know you girls do some pretty weird things, but that just makes no sense!"

Very poor choice of words.

With much annoyance, Babs responded, "Whether she knows or doesn't know what it smells like, I'm not sure, but from what she told us yesterday, I'm sure Fifi has her reasons for wanting it. So, Plucky," she glared, "as 'weird' as we girls are, I'd appreciate it if you keep your loose bill shut on what we, your friends _and_ girlfriend, enjoy! Fifi likes it, so who cares?"

"Okay, okay, jeez!" said Plucky, exasperated. "Man, you girls can't take a joke. . . ." One last fiery glare from both Babs and Shirley was enough to shut Plucky up.

"Right," said Hamton, turning back to the heart-shaped bottle. "So what's the price? Any of you know?"

"Right here, Hamton," said Buster, standing at the end of the glass counter where a sign was stuck to the side. "The price is. . . is. . . ."

But Buster's words fell, along with his relaxed face. He stared down at the side of the case as though he had just found something shocking and unpleasant. For a moment, Hamton stared confusedly as Babs, Plucky, and Shirley walked up beside Buster to read the price. Their expressions became identically unnerved.

"Guys?" asked Hamton. "What's wrong?"

Buster looked up, cleared his throat, and tried his best to look composed. "Uh . . . Hamton? You might want to consider buying Fifi something else."

"Why?" he asked. "It can't be _too_ much. Not if it's on sale."

Plucky inhaled through his teeth. "Hamton, pal . . . you might want check out the price on this puppy," and he pointed down at the sign.

Hamton walked forward, now dreading what he would see. He reached his friends and looked. His jaw dropped.

The sign held the words, " **Du Cœur - 2 oz. - ON SALE"**

And underneath it, the price: **$1500.00**

The enormity of the price seemed to fill up in Hamton's throat until he remembered he needed to breathe. He closed his eyes, then opened them, hoping his mind had played a trick on him and that one of the zeros would disappear with his regain of oxygen. But no. The number was still there, set in four digits — four unbelievably huge digits.

"There are diamond rings less expensive than this," said Babs, sounding speechless.

Just as Hamton, too, was about express his disbelief, Plucky, thankfully, did it for him. "Are they crazy?" he shouted, gaining the attention of many shoppers. "Fifteen hundred dollars? For _that_ little thing? What, is the perfume made of children's tears? I'd cry too if _I_ ever had to buy it!"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with you, Plucky!" said Babs. "It's a scandal! How is anyone supposed to pay for it, by giving their teeth?"

Hamton looked again at the sign. "Two ounces," he read with astonishment. "All that for _two_ ounces?"

"That's seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars per ounce!" said Shirley, shaking her head. "The French really ask a lot for their perfumes. Although . . . it, like, _could_ be worse."

Hamton and the others looked at her incredulously.

"What? It can," she said. "I hear there are perfumes that go for _a thousand_ dollars per ounce."

Babs looked back down at the sign to read what Hamton saw as comments about the perfume.

 _All Natural Ingredients (Animal Friendly)_

 _Perfect for both day and evening_

 _Best Selling Fragrance in France_

"All Natural," Babs read. "That might have a part to play in the high price. I trust Fifi when she said no animals were hurt in making this stuff, but still . . . so much must go into making just one bottle."

Hamton ran his hands down his face, shaking his head. "How am I ever going to pay for it?"

"What?" his four friends said simultaneously, all sounding shocked.

Hamton looked up at them. "What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Hamton . . . you can't be serious. . . ." said Babs softly.

Even Shirley, who Hamton knew for her tranquil demeanor, looked unhinged. "Like, _seriously_?"

"Well. . ." said Hamton. "Why not?"

" _Why not_?" Plucky exclaimed. "What do you mean, 'why not'? Can't you see the price, Hamton?"

Hamton turned to look back at the number, and suddenly knew what his friends were getting at. He also, at that moment, remembered back to yesterday when Fifi laughed at the idea of receiving this perfume. This must've been why, Hamton thought. Fifi knew how expensive it was, so of course she wouldn't count on anyone buying it for her. Unless. . . .

"Hamton?" asked Buster, sounding slightly worried.

"Yeah?"

"What are thinking, Hamton?"

Hamton looked to each of his friends, all wearing similar looks of questioning and concern. He lowered his gaze to the floor and tried to think. It was much easier to think here in this store than it had been outside on the bench, but the subject in Hamton's mind did not necessarily help his concentration.

From what he learned yesterday, there were only two things Fifi really wanted for Christmas: one of them was the perfume in front of Hamton; the other was a boyfriend that Hamton knew he could never live up to or change into. Of course, he would never go as far and change his appearance, nor did he think it were possible to do so. But maybe he didn't have to. . . . Maybe the perfume behind this glass would be enough. . . . Maybe if he managed to buy it and give it to Fifi. . . .

"Hamton?"

He looked up. It was Babs who spoke, but before she could speak another word, Hamton responded, "I think I'll try and get it for Fifi."

He sounded determined, though in truth, he wasn't sure if his own heart believed it.

"Oh, come on, Hamton!" said Buster, shaking his head, trying to sound reasonable. "You don't have that kind of money, do you?"

"No," Hamton admitted. "But I could raise the money."

"Like how?" Plucky asked loudly, throwing out his arms. "What do you plan to do? Sell yourself for bacon scraps?"

"I'll think of something."

"But there aren't that many days 'til the twenty-fourth," said Shirley. "It'll take, like, a miracle to raise that much by then!"

"Then I guess I'll just have to work hard and make a miracle."

Babs sighed gently. "Hamton . . . you don't have to do that. Fifi said she'll like just about anything she gets. There's no reason you have to go out of your way to get her something that expensive. I'm sure she'll love whatever you decide to give her."

Maybe, Hamton agreed without speaking. But wouldn't she _especially_ like the perfume, the thing she said she expected no one to get for her? What if he, Hamton, could do it? What if he could raise the money and buy Fifi the perfume? What then?

Making no heads or tails of what to do, and not wanting to cause his friends any worry, Hamton said, "I'll . . . think about it."

Though the words were simple, they seemed to satisfy his friends.

"You'll find the right thing, Hamton," said Babs, very friendly. "Just keep looking. You'll know what she wants."

* * *

The five friends browsed around the department store for a little while longer: Babs and Shirley looking at blouses, Buster and Plucky looking at leather jackets, and Hamton glancing around at the manikins dressed in purple and white sweaters, and always turning to look back towards the perfume section.

Around sunset, the five friends decided it was time to leave. They walked out of the Mall and back into the cold winter air. The chilly wind had, thankfully, died down to a mild breeze.

In the distance, aglow in the last of the evening light, as well as from a few windows, the clock tower of Acme Loo read 4:45.

Buster and Babs walked off towards the forest to their rabbit hole homes, Plucky to his frozen pond, and Shirley in the direction of her house on the hill.

Hamton, however, walked to the grocery store, the faint evening light and street lamps lighting his way as he headed down the city sidewalks.

Upon entering the grocery store, Hamton was quick with his purchases. It took him no more than twenty minutes to grab all the food he would need for the week. The total came to sixty-five dollars, leaving twenty-five dollars left from his parents' weekly check.

With an ACME Jumbo Storage Bag, which he had kept conveniently stuffed in his pants pocket all day, Hamton walked down the street towards home, his groceries snug in his bag. To the people passing by in their cars or the few going by on the sidewalk, they would've thought Hamton was carrying a duffel bag that looked a little more bulky than most bags were allowed.

Hamton's arms strained as he carried the loaded bag. His sensitive hands were also crying out in protest at the cold air. While the Jumbo Storage Bag allowed Toons to carry humongous loads while on foot, the combined weight from the bag did not disappear. In a way, it was like carrying around a portable cupboard: small in appearance, massive in space, horribly heavy in weight.

But Hamton didn't care very much about how heavy the bag weighed. For one, he had done this many times since the start of this year and was quite used to it. For another, Hamton was currently preoccupied with thoughts that, for once, had nothing to do with the food he just bought.

Rushing past a snow-smeared crosswalk alighted by street lamps, Hamton breathed in the cold air and slowed his pace as he crossed over onto the country road leading up to his house. Eventually, he came to his front door and, feeling very relieved, stepped through and out of the cold.

After unpacking the food and dividing it amongst the fridge and pantry, Hamton entered the living room, turned on a lamp, and sat down on the couch. He didn't bother turning on the TV; there was more than enough activity going on inside his mind to keep him busy.

Sighing, he leaned forward and placed his hands on his chin, very much like how he had done at the Mall.

The bold, black price of one thousand five-hundred dollars was still crisp in his memory as though the last hour had stamped it into his skull. It was still hard to believe such a small bottle could go for such a high amount.

Frowning hard, Hamton let his hands fall from his face and land on his knees.

What else could buy? What else would Fifi like?

Hamton knew Fifi loved flowers, and though it was winter, the Acme Florists were still accepting orders to import flowers in for the holidays. Then again . . . Hamton had already given Fifi flowers the year before, though technically she never found out that he, Hamton, had been the one to give them to her. Not to mention, Fifi was just given a rose bouquet for winning the school talent show. She surely had had enough flowers to last a while.

 _Okay, forget flowers_ , Hamton thought. _What else?_

There were also books, as Fifi was an avid reader when it came to romance novels. Although — Hamton cringed at the thought — this might add to Fifi's desperate longing to find that special someone even more. Or worse, it could add to her disappointment that she hadn't found that person yet.

What else was there? Jewelry? But Hamton couldn't recall many instances where Fifi ever wore jewelry. Chocolates? Like the flowers, he had already done so last year. Music CDs? What music did Fifi like, though? And did she even have a music player?

Hamton brainstormed until he came to a painful, throbbing blank. Nothing seemed good enough to express his feelings, nothing except for the perfume he knew, for a fact, that Fifi _did_ want but did not expect to receive.

Hamton sighed wearily and pinched the bridge between his eyes and nose. As much as he wanted to agree with Babs that any other present would do, Hamton could think of nothing else that would impress Fifi more. Plus, the very thought of giving Fifi the perfume had been running through Hamton's head ever since he left the Mall, and the more Hamton thought about it, the more vivid and enjoyable the visions became.

 _It was Christmas Eve_ , he imagined, _and the party at Acme Loo was in full swing. The tables were lined with treats and holiday music was being played to which people danced to. The spirit of the season was tangible as people talked, embraced, and exchanged gifts. And there was Fifi, dressed in a breathtaking gown, the bow in her silky, periwinkle hair a bright green and red. She held in her soft hands the spectacular gift she never expected to get and her eyes beamed into Hamton's . . . and then Fifi smiled at him and moved closer. . ._

Blinking, Hamton could feel his cheeks straining from the grin that had formed on his face. Raising his hands, he could feel the warmth of his blushing.

With one more sigh to calm his expression, Hamton breathed and stood up from the couch. His mind was made up. The feeling may have only been in his head, but it was far too real to just be a mere daydream.

As difficult as Hamton knew it would undoubtedly be, he knew, without knowing how he knew, that he had a chance. There was still time, he told himself. The party wasn't until December twenty-fourth, and even if he didn't make it, he could rest knowing that he had, at least, tried.

One thing was for certain, however: If Hamton was serious about this, if he was actually going to do what so few others would attempt, he was going to have to start _now_ — right this very minute.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. Hamton's mission is now set. Will he be able to see it through? Will he get the Du Cœur perfume in time?**


	6. Snow and Sweat

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own** _ **Tiny Toon Adventures**_ **or any of its characters, locations, etc. I am merely a fan and wish to give something worth reading.**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 _Snow and Sweat  
_  
 _~Dec. 2nd~_

Hamton wrote quickly and furiously, tongue stuck out and eyes fixed on his notebook. His pen flew across the page, going so fast it was a miracle the paper didn't tear.

A few sentences later, Hamton dotted the last period and blazed through his essay entitled "Outwitting the Advanced Cartoon Dog" for Prof. Leghorn's Hound Teasing class.

 _. . .as the more advanced dogs aren't as predictable, it's crucial that you prepare ahead of time to deploy the proper techniques or risk something worse than mere disappointment — i.e. a leg in a cast or having all your feathers pounded off._

 _First, observe the dog in question. Study its behavior, its habits, and its surroundings. The first move is important, so make sure you're prepared._

 _Next, be resourceful. Find a way to make your surroundings work for you, such as length of the dog's rope, inexplicably dropped banana peels, or objects hanging precariously off the edge of the nearest roof._

 _Third, apply creativity into your prank — give the cartoon viewer something to remember. If you have the choice between going head on or up, around, and zigzag, choose the longer of the two — far more enjoyment for the viewer and the dog will have a harder time trampling you._

 _Finally, and perhaps most importantly. . ._

Hamton pressed his hand to his cheek as his eyes roved over the fourth step: having a back-up plan should anything go astray, along with a couple examples for such a situation.

It was really dull work; in no place or time could Hamton ever fathom he would come to use such information. Still . . . homework was homework, and thankfully this was the only bit he had for tonight.

Going over his essay, Hamton corrected any misspelled words and crossed out a few vague ones so as to replace them with words more specific and rhythmically sound. Once the editing was done, Hamton went into high-speed and rewrote the essay with the corrections on clean sheets of paper, finishing in under a minute. Signing his name at the top, Hamton slammed his notebook shut, dropped the pen, and rushed out of his bedroom.

In the living room, Hamton checked the clock on the wall. It was 5:30, meaning there was still time to go out and do what he planned.

Pulling on his winter coat and hat, Hamton moved out from the front door in a haste. The neighborhood was quiet and all the street lamps were glowing a soft white in the cold night air. Thankfully it wasn't so cold that Hamton's hands were crying in protest; in fact, after all the writing he finished, the cool air was quite comforting on his fingers.

Hamton made his way in the direction to his neighbor's house, smiling widely at the huge amount of snow that had been allowed to pile up in the driveway.

Adults in cartoons could be so neglectful at times; it's almost like they're not even there. . . .

Calming his smile, so as not to look insane, Hamton moved across the small walkway, stopped on the welcome mat and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, one of the neighbors nobody ever saw answered.

"Hello, ma'am," Hamton said politely. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you would like some help shoveling the snow out your driveway."

The elderly woman stared at him questionably, and, as she did, Hamton experienced the familiar churning in his stomach that came every time he found himself at the center of unwanted attention. Finally, the woman shook her head and said, in a tone of light amusement, "Oh, no, sonny. I couldn't ask you do to that."

"Well . . . I, uh. . ." Hamton stammered, his eyes darting here and there. The inside of his throat felt tight and he couldn't seem to collect his words. Why was he doing this? What had possessed him to come out here on this cold winter night and ask to shovel snow from someone he hardly ever sees?

 _Fifi_ , a part of him thought firmly. _You're doing this for Fifi! Honestly, have you already forgotten why you rushed through your homework? Focus!_

Hamton let out a deep breath and felt his stomach unclench a little. Though not totally at ease, his mind seemed to calm itself enough for him to think clearly.

Clearing his throat, Hamton tried again. "Well, uh, ma'am, I — I actually meant, I'll shovel your driveway for f-five dollars — if that sounds fair to you," he added quickly.

The uncomfortable silence which Hamton hated reared its ugly head again, and, for a moment, he and his elderly neighbor just looked at one another.

Hamton swallowed silently. He didn't think he could've been more blunt in his offer. It almost felt like he was begging.

But the old lady grinned. "Why, sure thing, sonny. I can do that."

"Really?" Hamton asked, his spirits rising. "You mean it?"

"Well, of course," said the lady. "I have to have my driveway cleared anyhow, and that darn Acme city service plow always charges fifteen dollars for the whole job. With _you_ doing it, I can actually save a buck or two."

"Okay!" said Hamton happily. "I'll be right back with my shovel!"

Eager and quite pleased with himself, Hamton ran back through his front door and grabbed the snow shovel resting by the coat hooks in the entryway. Then he returned to the house next door and got busy at once.

The snow from two days ago had settled and thickened over the short period of time, so Hamton had to push the shovel with a little extra force, but strangely, by the time he was done, he didn't feel too tired.

He stared over his finished work. A thin, even sheet of white was all that covered the driveway now, the excess in piles on both sides of the garage.

"Thank you, sonny," said the old lady at the door. "I really appreciate it. Here's your pay." She held out a five-dollar bill, worn and wilted.

"Thanks," said Hamton, pocketing the dollar in the side of his overalls. "Have a very good night, ma'am."

"You too, dear," the old lady said kindly. "And thank you. It's nice to have a helping hand every once and a while, especially 'round this time of year. Take care not to stay out too long now."

"I will. Good night," Hamton called, waving to her as he walked away down the sidewalk.

Knowing that it couldn't be very late, Hamton knocked on a few more doors in his neighborhood, all of which, he noticed, still had snow in their driveways.

"Hmm . . ." said Hamton, eyeing all the snow. "Convenient."

To Hamton's delight, three more neighbors granted him permission to shovel their driveways in exchange for the small amount of five dollars. One belonged to a man who was simply too lazy to work and was happy to pay someone else to do it for him. The second driveway belonged to a character whom the _Tiny Toons_ creators had scrapped and left unfinished (yet, for some reason, was still able to earn money). And the third neighbor was so happy just to have someone to talk to that she paid Hamton an extra five dollars. To thank her, Hamton also shoveled a pathway around her house so her dog could have an easier time when going to do his "business."

A few houses, however, were less supportive to Hamton's offer. Hamton wasn't at all surprised by this; he expected to receive a couple 'no's' here and there, and people did have a right to refuse if they weren't interested, which was perfectly fine. But rude was still rude, and some of these people made Hamton wish he were back inside his warm house, eating a dozen cookies.

One of these rude people was a man dressed in a white tank top smattered with food stains and was holding a bottle of some unknown beverage. "Go to the soup kitchen and leave us decent, hard-working folk alone, beggar!"

Another one of these rude people was a teenage girl who said nothing whatsoever but merely slammed the door in Hamton's face, who left feeling thankful for having a flat nose.

And one household belonged to a young man who had an attitude as blunt as a bulldog's tooth.

"Five dollars to shovel snow?" he repeated sourly. "What's wrong with you? You think just because there's snow in my driveway that I'll pay you to clear it? What, you think the world is filled with people willing to hand out money to other people just because they do something for them?"

Hamton, keeping his tone polite, responded, "Well . . . yeah. It's called having a job."

The young man looked taken aback and, if Hamton guessed right, a little embarrassed by how his cheeks turned light red.

Gritting his teeth, the man said, "We'll, I'm not giving you one!" and he slammed the door, causing a dusting of snow to fall from the roof, right onto Hamton's hat.

Hamton, repressing a sigh, called out, "Sorry for disturbing you!"

The man behind the door screamed in frustration; apparently he wasn't expecting Hamton to finish on a polite note.

The other houses, thankfully, gave more simple and friendly refusals.

"No, thank you."

"Thanks for the offer, but no."

"Maybe some other time."

"Hey, you used to be on _Tiny Toons_! Can I have your autograph?"

With no other offers and his energy starting to run low, Hamton decided to call it quits and head for home. Good thing, too; his hands were starting to feel the bite of winter again.

Panting, Hamton arrived back at his front door and dragged the snow shovel by the handle inside with him. He hung up his coat and hat, both damp from sweat, propped the shovel against the wall, then, slouching, he walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch, his arms sprawled over the side. His lungs rejoiced at the house's warm air as well as the immobilization that came with rest and doing nothing.

Once he was more comfortable, Hamton sat up straight on the couch cushion and reached into his overalls' side pocket, pulling out the money he received from his neighborly chores.

It all totaled to twenty-five dollars. Not bad for the first few jobs, and it had only taken . . .

Hamton looked up at the clock and received a shock. It was 8:30. He had been outside for nearly three hours; no wonder he felt tired!

As though it too had realized the passage of time, his stomach let out a hearty growl and pained Hamton to give it food or suffer further discomfort.

Half an hour later, Hamton whipped up a pot of macaroni and cheese and eagerly ate through three-quarters of the pot. He could hardly believe he had gone past dinner time without his stomach shouting protests; it was usually quite famous for this, serving as his own kind of meal bell. But no matter. His stomach was full now and Hamton was in too good a mood. When it came down to it, it had been quite a fulfilling day for him: walking to school with Fifi, spending time at the Mall with his friends, finishing his homework in under an hour, and making twenty-five dollars shoveling snow. And speaking of that twenty-five dollars. . . .

After washing the dishes of all its dried-on cheese, Hamton returned to his bedroom and sat down again at his desk. Placing his notebook which contained his completed Dog Teasing essay to the side, Hamton grabbed a clean sheet of paper and, at the very top, wrote in black ink:

 **$1,500**

Hamton spent a few moments staring down at this giant number, trying not to feel overwhelmed. Next, he stood up from his chair and walked over to his dresser.

He knelt down onto the carpet, reached out and pulled open the dresser's bottom drawer. He extracted from it an old, tin lunch box, decorated with an ice cream sundae, priced for only a dollar. Hamton had used it back in his early elementary years, having always been a fan of Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor, and kept it as a keepsake to those simpler years. The box had held a lot of good lunches in its time. These days, Hamton used it for something rather different.

Seated back at his desk, Hamton flipped up the latch and opened the lunch box's lid. He reached in and pulled out a stack of folded dollars: money he had saved up over the last several months. He counted it out.

"Fifty . . . eighty . . . a hundred . . ."

When he was done, Hamton had in total one-hundred and thirty dollars in savings. Taking the twenty-five dollars he made within the last few hours, he added the money all together to one-hundred and fifty-five. The number wasn't quite as high as Hamton had hoped, but he wasn't about to be discouraged yet: He had every intention of seeing that number increase. So, with his pen in hand and the paper in front, he made the necessary adjustments.

 **$1,500  
**  
 **-$155**  
 **(shoveling snow)**  
 **(savings)  
**  
 **$1,345**

Hamton stared at the new number and let out a sigh, his head hanging. It was hardly better than the top number he had crossed out, but he reminded himself that it was, at the very least, a start. All he had to do now was find ways to make the number shrink. How he was going to earn that much money, though. . . .

He sat back in his chair, his eyes wandering the walls and ceiling, his mind searching.

He'll need to find more jobs; that much was obvious, but what else?

Hamton thought momentarily to the envelope of money hiding inside his desk drawer.

 _No_ , he thought harshly, shaking his head. _That for my friends' gifts! It stays where it is!_

All right . . . What about the leftover grocery money? That's twenty-five more dollars there.

 _Well . . . maybe_ , Hamton thought. _But for now I'll keep it in case of an emergency. I might get extra hungry one day. Wouldn't be the first time. . . ._

Almost as though it had a gravitational pull, Hamton's eyes moved back to the huge number he had scrawled on the page. It stood out like a stain on the otherwise clean paper, despite haven been written so small.

Hamton groaned, his brain now assaulting him with bigger questions. Was he _really_ serious about this? Was he really going to go to such lengths just to buy a small bottle of perfume? What if he didn't make enough money in time? What if the Mall ran out of stock before he had a chance to buy the perfume? How and where would he find the jobs needed to raise enough profit?

Not to mention, there were certain things Hamton couldn't put off: His friends, his parents, his school work, and, to top it all painfully off, the Winter Exams were approaching in just a few weeks, and they'll most certainly demand a huge portion of his time.

Frowning, starting to feel very uncomfortable in his chair, Hamton thought back to his friends' reactions at the Mall when he stated aloud his idea of buying the Du Coeur. He remembered the concern etched in their faces, the worry in their voices, and Hamton couldn't blame any of them. The idea of paying over a thousand dollars for two ounces of perfume felt insane, even for cartoon standards.

But on the other hand . . . Fifi clearly likes the perfume. She had described it with such loving detail, with such tenderness. . . .

For the third time that day, Hamton pressed his hands to his face and found himself striving for answers that seemed far beyond mortal reach. There was no clear answer anywhere, and each time he strained himself to find one, it only seemed to make the thought process more difficult.

He thought about all the work ahead of him and how much it would have to be if he was to get anywhere near fifteen-hundred dollars. He thought about all the free time he would lose while working. He thought about Fifi at the Talent Show, singing "Habanera" in her pink dress. He thought about coming home every day feeling as though he had run a marathon (an event he thoroughly disliked). He thought about the warmth he got every time he was near Fifi. He thought and thought and thought. . . .

Finally, Hamton let out a sigh and shook his head.

"I'll just have to do my best," he told himself. "I'll work and try to raise the money, and if I make it, I'll the buy the perfume. And if I don't make it . . . well, then I'll just have to find something else for Fifi."

That was all he could confidently say for the time being. Saying it aloud relaxed Hamton, making his insane idea feel slightly more reasonable.

He stood up from the desk and placed his pen onto the paper that would detail his mission's progress. Then he took the money he counted and placed it all into the Frosty's Parlor lunch box. He shut the lid, closed the latch with a click, and returned the box to its dresser drawer, pushing it back as far it would go and placing a folded blanket on top so as to give it some concealment.

He then stood up and walked to his window, his transparent reflection looking back at him.

"You can do this," Hamton told himself firmly, not knowing whether to believe it or not.

He brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed. As Hamton laid there under the sheets, his muscles felt sluggish from his work shoveling snow — the mere beginning of what he knew was to come.

 _~$1,345 to go - 22 Days until Dec.24th~_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. Shoveling snow sounds simple, but this is only the beginning.**


	7. Confiding and Concealing

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _Confiding and Concealing_

 _~Dec. 3rd~_

The morning of December 3rd arrived with Hamton waking not sore as he had feared but fully rested. Smiling, he stretched out his arms and flexed his toes beneath his blankets. Everything, from his pig ears down to his short, squiggly tail felt renewed, ready for a new day. But this wonderful relief lasted for only a minute before Hamton discovered, by glancing to his alarm, that he was fifteen minutes behind schedule.

After hurriedly cleaning himself up and downing two bowls of cereal with toast, Hamton rushed out the front door, not forgetting to lock it. He then broke into a jog while zipping up his winter coat, taking a moment to glance at the clean, snow-free driveways he had shoveled the night before.

His elderly neighbor waved at him through her window. Hamton returned her friendly gesture with a quick wave of his own, then continued on without delay.

He walked quickly down the country road, reaching the edge of the city much faster than usual. Short of breath, he turned a corner and met a friendly and rather adorable sight.

"Hey . . . Buster. Hey . . . Babs," he called, panting his way towards the two rabbits holding hands.

"Morning, Hamton," they said together. Buster, noticing Hamton's ragged breathing, said, "You okay, pal?"

"Oh, yeah," said Hamton, catching his breath. "I w-woke a little late and had — had to rush breakfast. But I — I'm fine. You guys doing okay?"

"Yep," said Buster. "Snug as a rabbit in a rabbit hole."

"Guess what we each had for breakfast," said Babs, her tone dry yet amused.

Hamton, wiping his brow on his coat sleeve, gave a light smirk. "Carrots?"

"Carrot cereal, actually," said Buster. "Not as bad as it sounds, but I swear, if anyone decides to invent carrot milk, I might have to put my foot down."

"Just be careful you don't smoosh anyone," Babs remarked. "With feet our size, you can never be too careful. But that aside. Hamton?" She turned to him, looking concerned. "Is everything okay from yesterday?"

Hamton frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know . . . when we were at the Mall," she responded gently. "Have you — uh, thought over the whole gift thing at all?"

"Oh, yeah," said Hamton with a nod. "It was a bit tricky, but I've decided what I'll do."

"And?" asked Buster, an eyebrow raised. Babs, too, looked intently at Hamton as the three of them crossed the next city block.

Making sure they reached the other side before he said it, Hamton took a breath of crisp December air, then spoke. "I'm going to try and get it."

Buster and Babs stopped walking. They didn't seem to understand what Hamton just told them, or perhaps they did but just didn't see how Hamton could've said it. In either case, he clarified, "I'm going to try and buy the perfume for Fifi."

A car drove by down the street, its tires sounding much louder than usual on the snow.

Hamton didn't think he could've made himself more clear than he had, but apparently he thought wrong, because Buster and Babs went from confused to outright baffled.

"Hamton!" said Babs, sounding alarmed. "That's crazy! There's no way!"

"I'm going to try," he told her confidently.

"Hamton, that's fifteen-hundred dollars!" said Buster bluntly. "That's like five weeks' worth of paychecks! How do you expect to raise that kind of money?"

"I'll just have to go and look for jobs, I guess, wherever I can find them."

"Like where?" Buster asked incredulously. "Where are you going to look?"

"Anywhere they show," said Hamton, shrugging. "I made twenty-five dollars last night shoveling snow for my neighbors. It's not much, but it's a start."

Babs looked at Hamton as though she were trying to sympathize with a very deep and sensitive issue. "Hamton . . . Fifi will like whatever you get her. You know she's not fussy about presents."

"Yeah," said Buster, also sounding deeply concerned. "You'll work yourself to death trying to make all that money, and I don't think Fifi will like seeing you in that kind of state."

Hamton listened but kept his state of mind determined. However, he could plainly see how worried Buster and Babs were, so he said, reassuringly, "I appreciate you guys being worried about me. Really, I do, but I think I can do it."

Buster and Babs' anxious expressions did not vanish.

"Look," said Hamton, frowning, ". . .Buster, Babs, I know it's a lot. Trust me, I've had plenty of time to think about how crazy it is last night. But . . . I want to try. I want to try and give Fifi the best I can give her. But," he added on a last note, "if Christmas approaches and I haven't raised enough, I'll buy Fifi something else."

Buster and Babs looked a little more eased by Hamton's final words, but they still held a hint of worry, not necessarily at the thought of Hamton overexerting himself, but from something Hamton couldn't quite read.

Whatever it was, Hamton was relieved to hear Buster say the following words. "Okay, Hamton," he said calmly. "You do what you think is best."

"Thanks," said Hamton.

"Just promise us both one thing, Hamton," said Babs, her index finger held up and her tone both serious and caring. "Promise us you won't hurt yourself going about all this. The holidays should be a time of enjoyment, of being happy with your friends and family. Presents are just a small part of the festivities, so, please, don't push yourself too hard or do anything _too_ crazy, okay?"

A warm feeling of gratitude flowed through Hamton.

"Okay," he told them with a nod. "I promise you both that I'll be careful."

" _And_?" Babs asked with emphasis.

"And I'll try not to do anything stupid."

Babs smiled.

Pausing, thinking of a sudden and important contingency, Hamton added, "And, uh, Buster, Babs, can you both do _me_ a favor?"

"Don't worry," said Buster, waving his hand in assurance. "We won't tell, Fifi."

Hamton gaped at him.

"That is what you were going to ask us, right?"

"Yeah . . . but, how did —"

"Lucky guess," Buster said with a shrug. "Come on. We better get going to school. Prof. Leghorn won't like it if we're late."

Babs and Hamton both agreed, and the three of them began again down the block.

"What'd you guys write for your Hound Teasing essay?" asked Babs. "I thought it'd be a good idea to have more than one back-up plan, like a sassy impression if the dog's male, or a poor begging orphan if it's female."

"What would it matter if the dog was female?" asked Buster. "If the dog's vicious I don't think it would matter if it was facing an orphan or an old man in a wheelchair."

"Yeah, but Prof. Leghorn never explained the dog's personality," Babs added, sounding smart-alecky. She then reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded rectangle of paper. "I packed enough words into this essay to suffocate a dictionary."

Babs gave the folded essay a light shake and Hamton swore he heard it rattle, as though the written words were bursting to fall out.

"Wow," said Buster, mildly impressed. "I didn't know you liked Hound Teasing that much, Babsy."

"What can I say, it's fun to tease," said Babs, smirking at Buster in a mischievous way.

Hamton then watched as one of Babs' long, pink ears, the end set with a violet bow, tapped Buster on his right shoulder. Buster jumped and turned to see what had poked him, but, with his back turned, Babs planted a kiss right on his cheek. Then, being just close enough, Hamton heard her whisper, "I just can't help myself."

Smirking, Hamton shook his head in amusement.

Buster, looking slightly annoyed but in no way upset that Babs had kissed him, said, "How'd your essay turn out, Hamton?"

"Oh, fine, I guess," he said, digging around in his coat pocket. "I wrote it in a bit of hurry, but from what we learned in class, I think I wrote enough to . . . to . . ."

Hamton's calmness faltered. He reached deeper into his coat for his essay, but all he felt was the cold metal of his house keys.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember ever folding his essay so it could slide into his pocket. . . . He had simply left it in his notebook . . . on his desk. . . .

Hamton's mouth went dry, drier than the winter air. He may have just frozen to the sidewalk.

"Hamton?" asked Buster. "You okay?"

"I forgot!" he shouted in a panic. The people near enough to listen turned sharply in the direction of the three Toons. A man driving his car actually turned his head in surprise towards the shout, from which then came a loud crash as an out-of-sight sheep let out a bleat that nobody gave notice to.

"My essay! I left it at home!" cried Hamton, his bare hands gripping the sides of his head. "I gotta go back!"

He turned and ran. "I'll see you all at school!" he shouted back to Buster and Babs, his lungs already protesting as he sprinted through the cold morning air, back the way he had come.

* * *

For the second time that week, the citizens of Acme Acres heard a light, beautiful humming moving down the cold sidewalk as they bustled here and there, getting ready for the day. Last time it had been a rendition of "Habanera," the famous aria of a not-so-admirable gypsy. Today, it was an unknown but no less delightful tune, and its sound was enough for anyone to imagine it belonging to a beautiful sight. They weren't wrong.

Fifi was walking the path towards school, passing houses and parked cars coated in frost. Her large fluffy tail bobbed with each step and the ends of her white scarf were swaying gently. She was humming a little song she had played on the harp last night at the Acme Acres Country Club: a light serenade to which she was now quite fond of.

All things considered, Fifi La Fume was quite happy.

Most was excellent in her life: a good job, wonderful friends, a decent (to be modest) appearance, and, as far as she could tell, she had written a fair essay for Prof. Leghorn's Hound Teasing class and was ready for the school day ahead. The only thing that would've made her life perfect was having that special someone right next to her, holding her hand as she trekked along this December morning.

"Le sigh. . ." Fifi said aloud. "Where, oh where in ze wide world is my darling boy? Whezher on earth or over ze moon, I will seek, so zat I may swoon and kiss his tender cheek."

Fifi giggled at her little rhyme and continued on towards school, its tall clock tower peeking out over the city buildings.

Fifi had spoken sentences like these so many times before, it had become a kind of hobby of hers — a hobby she was not shy to perform in public. She knew that her true love, her darling boy, was out there somewhere, if only unaware. . . . If so, then Fifi made sure to speak her affection aloud, confident that, should he be close by, her perfect man would hear her and come rushing.

But, of course, there were more "Le sighs" with this belief than hugs and kisses. That, or her dream boy was deaf beyond remedy (which Fifi wouldn't mind, so long as his nose didn't mind skunk musk).

But no matter. Determinedly, Fifi pressed on, all the while secretly hoping she would find her true love when she least expected, whether today or tomorrow, whether walking on the sidewalk or even waiting for her beside the archway that marked the entrance to Acme Looniversity.

When Fifi arrived outside the said arch, the only people standing there were four of her five dearest friends. Buster and Babs were standing close to each other, observing Plucky and Shirley, who were having what appeared to be an argument.

Hamton, for whatever reason, was absent. Fifi frowned at this; it wasn't like Hamton to miss school. Was he sick?

Slowly, Fifi approached her friends, going unnoticed by Plucky and Shirley as they continued to bicker.

"Come on, Shirls!" Plucky moaned. "You can't _still_ be holding that to me. It's been two days already! And besides, I told you —"

"Yeah, I, like, heard you!" Shirley cut across him, arms folded. "You're too embarrassed to have me kiss you, let alone on the cheek!"

"But I told you _already_ , Shirley," Plucky said through gritted teeth, "that I didn't want _you_ to be embarrassed! There's a huge difference!"

"Like _what_?" Shirley shouted, sounding much angrier than Fifi ever heard before. "What's the difference? You being embarrassed by the kiss or you _feeling_ embarrassed that others might see me kiss you?"

Still unnoticed by the squabbling duck and loon, Fifi walked up to Buster and Babs, who both greeted her with a wave.

"What is happening?" asked Fifi.

Buster, with a weary sake of his head, replied, "Oh, they're fighting about something that happened when we left Frosty's the other day. Apparently Plucky said something stupid after Shirley kissed him on the cheek."

"Typical Plucky," sighed Babs.

"But zat was on Monday," said Fifi. "They seemed all right yesterday."

"Yeah, they were," said Babs. "But this morning, Shirley kissed Plucky on the cheek again when they were out for coffee, and, being the unbelievably immature boy that he is, Plucky complained about being kissed in public."

"Such a lame-o thing to do!" Shirley shouted, drawing Fifi's, Buster's, and Babs' attention again.

" _Shirley_ ," said Plucky, his voice strained with impatience. "Don't get me wrong, okay? I _do_ like you. I really —"

"Then what's wrong with me kissing you?" she asked. "What about it is so embarrassing?"

"Nothing, I just don't —"

"What? You don't want everyone to think you're in a relationship or some junk?"

"No, I —"

" _Or_ ," Shirley said very darkly, "maybe you're afraid what people will think if they learn you're going out with _me_. Am I, like, too much of a 'loon' for you?"

" _What_? No! Shirley —" Plucky tried desperately, but she wouldn't hear a word of it.

"Oh, sure, continue throwing excuses and making stuff up! I'm surprised your karma hasn't kicked you into space yet!"

Plucky looked incensed. " _Again_ with Karma!" he shouted, and this time, Shirley fell silent, looking alarmed.

"Karma, karma, karma! Ooo!" he said exasperatedly, his voice becoming a mockery of Shirley's. "'You better be nice or the world won't be! You should always watch your feet so you don't trip over them! Never mind that I can just levitate off the ground so I don't have to worry about that junk, or some junk!' Oh, sure!" Plucky's voice returned to normal, though he looked no less angry. "Yeah, Shirley. I'm a real lame-o! At least I don't go shoving fortunes up people's —"

"ENOUGH!" Fifi bellowed. "BOTH OF YOU, _TAIS-TOI_!"

Plucky and Shirley both jumped in surprise, their anger turning to shock.

"Fifi?" said Shirley, surprised and delighted. "Like, whoa girl! Talk about a Houdini!"

"Yeah," said Plucky. "When'd you get here?"

"One minute ago," she said sharply. "Now, as I am sure you both have your reasons for acting stupide and, how zey say, 'an old married couple', allow me to help you both solve your little problem, _right now_!"

With anger and frustration awhirl inside her, Fifi stepped forward and grabbed a scared looking Plucky by the wrist.

"Plucky," Fifi said with the voice of a stern mother, "learn to think before you speak, and stop feeling embarrassed about such silly things. Zhere is nothing embarrassing about kissing, especially when it is with your _girlfriend_!"

"You tell him, gal-pal!" Shirley said, patting Fifi on the back.

"And you!" Fifi grabbed Shirley's wrist with her other hand, wiping the smile off her face. "You are not without blame, either! You need to stop interrupting and let Plucky explain himself! Hold off on your beliefs and allow Plucky to say what he needs. Even if his reasons are childish, he still deserves to be heard!"

Then, with a surprising amount of strength, Fifi pulled their hands inward and linked them together. Plucky and Shirley nearly tripped on the force of the pull, but maintained balance as Fifi was there to steady them.

"Zhere," Fifi said heavily. "Now, _are_ you two going to behave?"

"Yes! Like, so yes!" said Shirley at once, a little shaken.

"What are you, my mother?" Plucky replied.

Fifi shot him a horrible glare.

"I mean, yes, ma'am!" He smiled awkwardly, taking a step back.

"Good," said Fifi steadily. "And will you two fight again about such silly things?"

The duck and loon shook their heads simultaneously, their argument forgotten in fear of the passionate skunk standing before them.

But Fifi wasn't scowling anymore. She smiled warmly and folded her hands together over her heart. "Very good. Now let zis petty moment pass. Cherish what you both have, learn from what happened, and grow closer togezher, for zat is ze nature of love."

Silence followed these words. For a brief moment, Fifi thought Plucky and Shirley would laugh, thinking she was being, how they'd say, 'cheesy' or 'lovey-dovey', but, still holding each other's hands as Fifi had linked them, they both gave her a light smile, and that was enough for her.

"Bravo, Fifi," Babs complimented. "Beautifully handled, and spoken."

Clearing her throat, Fifi backed away and eased herself.

"I am sorry," she said to the rabbits and waterfowl. "I did not wish to shout, but I do not like seeing my friends fight. And zat goes double for couples, _and_ zhose still learning how to be a couple," she said in the direction of Plucky and Shirley, still holding hands and now looking sheepish.

"Well," said Buster, "I hate to break up this random bit of relationship counseling, but class starts in five minutes." He pointed his thumb up to the clock tower, which read 7:55.

Realizing the time, the two rabbits, duck and loon got their wits about them and entered the school grounds through the arch. Fifi, however, stood where she was, glancing around.

"Where is Hamton?" she asked.

"He had to run back home," Buster replied. "He forgot his essay on Hound Teasing."

Fifi turned to look down the snow-covered sidewalk where Hamton and their group usually came when walking to school. Maybe it was only her imagination but, far out in the distance, there seemed to be someone running towards her.

It obviously wasn't a 'skunk-hunk', judging from the shape, but Fifi couldn't help picturing it: her long elusive true love running up to her, sweeping her off her feet and proclaiming undying affection.

Yes . . . only her imagination. . . .

"Fifi, like, let's get going!" Shirley called after her.

Fifi gave the running person one last fleeting gaze, then stepped forward under the arch and ran to join her friends.

"So," Plucky said to Buster and Babs, "what was that you two said when me and Shirley got here? Something about Hamton trying to —"

But Plucky broke off when Babs side-stepped him. Frowning curiously, Fifi thought she heard Babs mutter, "Not right now. We'll tell you later."

"But you said Hamton —"

"Later!" Babs whispered heatedly. "Jeez, have you already forgotten what Fifi told you?"

At that same moment, Plucky and Babs both glanced behind and gave Fifi an awkward smile. Having no idea what to make of this, Fifi smiled awkwardly in return and climbed the stairs to the school, out of the cold and into the warm entryway.

* * *

Hamton's lungs were screaming as he heaved in the chilly air. His sides felt ready to pop and sweat was freezing to his skin underneath his coat and hat.

Using his last bit of strength, he rushed up the school stairs, sprinted down the hallway to his locker, threw his coat and hat inside without bothering to hang them up, and ran, gasping, to a classroom labeled:

Prof. F. Leghorn

HOUND TEASING

At the precise moment Hamton thrust open the door, the 8:00 bell rang.

"Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo! If you're not in school by 8:00, you're coo-coo!" cried Gogo Dodo from over the intercom.

Relieved that he had made it just in time, Hamton collapsed onto the classroom floor, breathing hard amidst the shock of the class.

"Well," said Prof. Leghorn, sounding business-like, "glad to see, I say, glad to see you decided to join us, Hamton. Have you got your essay?"

Still on the floor, Hamton weakly reached into his pocket and pulled out his essay. It was crumpled from having been stuffed into his overalls so fast. He handed it to the teacher.

"Well, it could've been handled a bit better," said Leghorn, observing the wrinkles and the lack of a staple, "but at least you got it in on time. Alright, up and at 'em, boy." He reached down and pulled Hamton onto his feet by the straps of his overalls. "Go and take yer, I say, go and take yer seat, son. You're holding up the rodeo."

"Yes, sir," said Hamton breathlessly, and he dragged his feet over to his desk beside the window, right behind Plucky's and in front of Fifi's.

His friends didn't have the chance to ask him if he was okay, but it became apparent as Hamton caught his breath that he was going to be fine. A little exercise never killed anyone after all — not even a pig.

Thankfully, Hound Teasing didn't end up being very taxing this morning. Prof. Leghorn bored the class with a slideshow on how he became a professional hound teaser, which became tedious rather quickly, watching him spank a dog with a wooden fencepost for a whole hour.

Buster and Babs had their hands pressed against their bored faces. Shirley was apparently trying to meditate while keeping her open eyes set on the slideshow, though she looked very tired while doing it. Plucky had flat out fallen asleep and was drooling on his desk, snoring quietly. And because she was seated directly behind him, Hamton didn't know what Fifi was doing.

At the beginning, Leghorn had suggested, with a fair amount of smugness in his voice, that the students should take notes while observing a master dog teaser.

"Take notes now, I say, take notes," said Leghorn. "This material may just come up in your Cartoon Exams in two weeks."

The only one writing anything down in their notebook was Hamton, but his mind and notes were quite far away from Hound Teasing. He shifted his notebook closer to his chest and away from any prying eyes, looking over what he had written so far:

 ** _Job Ideas for Gift_**

 _-Shoveling Snow  
_  
 _-(House) Cleaning  
_  
 _-Cooking  
_  
 _-Part-time Job_

Hamton tapped his pen on his notebook, trying to concentrate over the sound of dogs barking and the yelps they made after they ran the length of their ropes. But for as far as his ideas stretched, the slideshow may as well have been playing at full volume. The list was not very satisfactory and didn't grow in length at all over the rest of the class.

When the bell rang, Hamton tore out the list, folded it, and placed it in the pocket of his overalls. Shutting his notebook, he left the classroom with his friends as Leghorn proclaimed that, next time they meet, they'll be given a pop quiz on the ways in which he teased dogs in the past.

"Like _that's_ difficult," said Plucky sarcastically, as he and the others walked out into the hall. "All he's done is spank them with fence posts."

"Plus used a few choice pranks from the Ace Novelty Company of Walla Walla, Washington," Buster added. "Courtesy of Daffy Duck."

"Oh, yeah," said Plucky, now smiling. "Man, Daffy was a genius in that episode."

"Not really," said Babs, opening her locker, "considering how he ended up being shoved into a bottle."

Plucky said nothing to this, but muttered something along the lines of, "Nobody's perfect."

"By the way, how are you feeling, Hamton?" asked Buster

"Huh?" Hamton said. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Ze weather must have been hard on you zis morning," said Fifi, her voice gentle.

"It — it wasn't too bad." Hamton inched towards his locker in order to hide a looming blush.

"It must have been chilly, zhough," she said. "I mean, if you ran all ze way back home and zen all ze way to school."

"Ah," said Hamton, shrugging, his face burning hotter, "I was okay. At least there was no wind."

The six of them headed on over to Prof. Daffy Duck's Advanced Wild Takes class, where goofy faces and outrageous overreactions were the key to success. Due to the wackiness of the whole class, and the physical strain it often put on the students' faces, Hamton didn't have much time to think up any more ideas on how to raise money for Fifi's present. Some people may disagree and make an attempt to multitask, but _you_ try to brainstorm while your teeth grow three times their size, _or_ while jumping ten feet into the air to shout with glee.

Calculations was no better, and Hamton didn't dare risk writing down ideas for fear that Granny might notice and make him explain what he was doing. As kind and calm as she usually was, Granny wasn't afraid to be strict when she wanted to, and oh man, when she wanted to. . . .

Lunch, which was usually Hamton's favorite time of the school day, was less enjoyable due to his lack of ideas to raise money, although he was able to conceal this from his friends reasonably well. And besides, he was a firm believer that having a full stomach helped immensely when it came to thinking.

So, seated between Plucky and Buster, Hamton helped himself to a tuna sandwich on wheat as he and his friends passed the time discussing Prof. Leghorn's lessons, to which Babs cleared her throat and spoke in a spot-on impression.

"I must say, I say, I must say that I can't say any sentence without, I say, without saying 'I say'. You'd think working part-time in the library would've given me a bigger vocabulary, 'cept my beak's packed with more 'I says' than a I can ever say, I say!"

Everyone laughed. Hamton chocked a little on his sandwich, but recovered when Buster have his back a hard pat.

Six of Babs' amusing impressions later, including one of Yosemite Sam doing a mumbling-profanity meltdown, they all headed to the library to spend the last half hour before classes resumed for the afternoon.

Fifi found a book on famous cartoon couples and sat down with her hand pressed to her cheek, staring dreamily at the stories of old animated lovers. Plucky and Shirley headed off behind a bookshelf, disappearing from sight, and Buster and Babs remained behind and approached Hamton just as he was about to take out his job list and try and brainstorm some more ideas.

"Hamton?" Buster whispered. "You got a second to talk?"

"Now? Uh, sure," he whispered back. "What abou—?"

"Not here." Babs shifted her eyes in the direction of the shelves where Plucky and Shirley walked off. "This way."

Confused, Hamton stood up from the table and followed Buster and Babs to a row of tall bookshelves. Glancing behind, Hamton saw that Fifi was still happily submerged in her book and didn't notice them leave.

They headed down a particularly long aisle of shelves where books of every size and color were stacked neatly, reaching high up to the ceiling. The florescent lights became slightly dimmer the farther they walked and there wasn't any sound whatsoever, for even their footsteps were muffled by the carpet. Hamton was about to ask Buster and Babs what is was they wanted to talk about when they turned the corner, coming face to face with Plucky and Shirley who were waiting alone.

"Finally! So are you two going to tell us what's going on or what?" Plucky asked impatiently, his voice a bit too loud to pass as a whisper.

"Keep quiet!" Babs hissed. "I'm leaving it up to Hamton!"

"Leaving what up to me?" asked Hamton, frowning.

Buster waved his hands inward and everyone moved into a huddle.

"Hamton," he whispered, "me and Babs didn't tell Plucky and Shirley yet. We wanted to wait and ask you first, just to make sure it's okay that they know about you-know-what."

Hamton blinked, but caught on fast. "Oh! Yeah. Sure, of course they can know, so long as they don't tell."

"Don't tell _**what**_?" Plucky whispered hectically, shaking his hands in mad exasperation.

"That I'm going to try and buy Fifi that Du Coeur perfume," Hamton answered.

The reaction to this simple statement was incredible, though admittedly quiet. The five friends broke their huddle and it was here that Hamton saw the full effect of his decision.

Plucky's eyes bulged to the size of baseballs. Shirley's calm expression seemed to shake slightly, as though someone had just told a very frightening fortune. Even Buster and Babs, who were already in on the secret, seemed to shift uncomfortably, eyeing Hamton with something like pity.

Then, looking as though he thought Hamton had gone mad, as well as forgetting they were in the library, Plucky shouted, "Are you _trying_ to go broke?"

"SHH!" Buster and Babs hissed aggressively.

"Plucky, for the love of —!" Buster muttered.

Calming down, Plucky responded more quietly, "Hamton, you can't honest —"

"Yes, I do," Hamton whispered confidently. "I want to try at least. I started just last night and I think off to a decent start."

"Do you, like, _know_ howyou're going to get that much money, though?" asked Shirley, and though her voice was considerably calmer than Plucky's, Hamton could tell that she was deeply concerned.

"I'm trying to think up a list," Hamton replied. "For now, though, I'll just go around and see if anyone needs help with anything. Odd jobs and that sort of thing, you know."

But Shirley didn't look too convinced. "That's gonna be majorly tough, Hamton. I mean, the holidays are, like, just around the corner and people will be saving money to buy gifts and all the other usual junk. It'll probably be more of a job trying to _find_ someone with money to spare."

"I guess. . ." said Hamton, his spirit sinking a little at this unpleasant realization. "But I won't know 'til I try, will I?"

"Hamton!" said Plucky impatiently, pinching the space between his eyes and bill. "You do realize we're not on _Tiny Toons_ anymore, right? That you don't have to go out of your way to do outrageous and irrational things like we used to, _right_?"

"Of course I know we're not on _Tiny Toons_ ," said Hamton, feeling slightly annoyed by Plucky's words. _Outrageous and irrational_? That was a bit much, wasn't it? All he wants to do is to buy Fifi a nice present. "Guys, look, I know it sounds crazy, but don't worry. I'm not going to go overboard with it. I'll just do as much as I can. Maybe I'll get the perfume and maybe I won't, but I _know_ I won't have a chance unless I try."

"Oh, you don't have to try," said Plucky with something of a scoff. "This situation is predictable enough as it is."

"Predictable?" repeated Hamton. "What do you mean my situation's predictable?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Hamton didn't answer. "Fine, allow me to explain."

Plucky cleared his throat, then placed his hands together like a man about to give a calm and orderly speech. "Hamton, here's what's going to happen. You'll spend all of December looking for ways to earn money, doing whatever you can find. Meanwhile, as time passes and the deadline draws near, you'll grow more and more exhausted and desperate. And, even if by some impossible miracle you do manage to get all the money, you'll be too late because the store will end up selling the last of the perfume before you have a chance to buy it. All of your work and sacrifice will be for nothing, then you'll cry and be sad and wonder why in the name of Steven Spielberg you let yourself be put through all that unnecessary pain.

" _That's_ what I mean by 'predictable'," Plucky said, ending on a blunt note.

The shaded library corner went totally quiet. Hamton stared at Plucky, struck dumb by everything he just said.

"Quite the motivational speaker, aren't you, Plucky?" said Babs dryly, her arms crossed.

"Oh, come on, Babs!" Plucky said, forgetting to whisper. "I'm just trying to spare Hamton the trouble. I mean, _you_ guys can't seriously think this is a good idea!"

Hamton looked from Plucky to Buster and Babs, anxious at what they would say.

After a long moment in which the two rabbits looked at Hamton, apparently trying to collect their words, Buster said, very strained, "Well . . . it's not . . . _too_ crazy. We've done crazier things in the past. I mean, we _are_ Toons after all. It's kind of our job to go out of the ordinary."

"Shirley, what do _you_ think of this?" asked Babs.

"Honestly?" she asked. "I think it's kind of cray-cray, like Plucky said. _But_ ," she added quickly in Hamton direction, "I also think it's very sweet that you want to go that far for Fifi, Hamton. It really speaks volumes for your spirit."

"You too, Shirls?" asked Plucky incredulously.

"It's up to Hamton, Plucky. As his friends, we should accept what he chooses."

"But _as_ his friends," Plucky stressed, "we should also try and keep him from doing anything stupid. I mean, seriously, Hamton," he said, turning to him, "ask yourself. Do you honestly, truly, _really_ sincerely think this is a good idea?"

Hamton let out a slow exhale and dropped his sight to the ground. "I can't honestly say I do. I know it's going to be a long month, and I don't know if I'll make it in time, but you guys," he lifted his head and looked at his friends, pleadingly, "I want to give Fifi something good, something that she'll love. If I do, then . . . maybe she'll. . . ."

Hamton's face burned in the suffocating quietness of the library; he couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. It was plain from the looks on their faces that each of his friends got the gist of what it was he had meant to tell them.

"Oh, Hamton . . ." said Babs quietly.

Plucky let out a sigh and a shake of his head. "Okay. . . . Hamton, pal, if you're up to it . . . then by all means go ahead. Just try and not make this whole thing too 'predictable'."

Hamton managed to chuckle. "Don't worry. I won't. Oh, and one more thing!" he said abruptly, only now just remembering it. "Please, please don't tell Fifi about this. I want it to be a surprise."

"Like, of course, Hamton," said Shirley. "Why would we tell?"

"You can count on me, buddy," said Plucky.

Buster, Babs, and Shirley all raised their eyebrows.

"What? I'm serious," he said, crossing his arms. "I don't have _that_ big a mouth."

"You did for the last two days," Shirley said dryly.

"Yeah, well . . . That was before Fifi told me and you to —"

"Before I told you two what?" came a sweet voice off to the side.

Startled, the five friends jerked around. Fifi was standing a few feet away, holding the book on Cartoon Couples.

"What are you all doing here?" she asked. "I thought I heard Plucky shout . . . about something zat had 'broke'?"

Hamton's throat seemed to constrict from the inside; the awkwardness of the situation felt so tangible it was almost suffocating. Fifi tilted her head to one side, her expression somewhere between curiosity and slight irritation for being left out on what must have appeared to be a secret meeting.

Hamton tried to speak, to utter any sort of excuse, but his usual timid voice had shrunken even deeper.

What on earth could he possibly say? Should he lie? No. He was a terrible liar and would hate lying to Fifi of all people; not to mention, it might cause a serious misunderstanding that could lead to something worse. On the other hand, Hamton knew perfectly well that he couldn't tell her the truth. This was not how Hamton wanted Fifi to find out how he felt, never in someplace as bland as a library corner. And yet to say nothing at all seemed, somehow, worse than telling a lie or spilling the beans.

But Hamton didn't have to say anything. Someone else did it for him: Plucky.

"Oh, Shirley was just talking back to what happened this morning," he explained. "You remember, Fifi, when you told me I should learn to think before I speak? Shirl's here commented on how big a mouth I have. She said she'll 'break' it if I don't keep it on a leash."

"Like, I did not say I would break it!" Shirley retorted.

Fifi's puzzled face became suddenly stiff. "You two are not fighting again, are you?"

"What? No!" said Plucky, waving his green feathered hands. "That was just a little joke she made, just a laugh. I mean, let's face it, I _do_ have a big mouth."

"Even more so after this morning's Wild Takes class," said Buster, smirking, in what Hamton thought was an attempt to steer the conversation in a better direction.

"So . . ." Fifi said, an eyebrow raised, "you five all got togezher, gathered in a shaded corner of ze library, just to say Plucky has a big mouth?"

There were a few moments of awkward silence.

"Well . . . if you want to know the whole truth, Fifi, we were also discussing gift ideas," Plucky responded, sounding humble.

Hamton's teeth clenched so hard together, it was a miracle they didn't break. His heart pounded frantically; he could feel his mind going numb. He looked imploringly at Plucky, mentally begging him not to say what he was about to say next. Buster was shooting Plucky a look of anger and disbelief, and Babs and Shirley looked ready to punch him should he dare blab one more syllable.

"Gifts?" asked Fifi. "For whom?"

Feeling as though he might explode from lack of oxygen, Hamton's eyes zoomed back to Plucky.

"For whom? For _me_ , of course, " said Plucky, smirking around at them all. "I was going to ask you to come and join us too, Fifi, but you looked real busy with that book." He pointed at the volume she held to chest. "I thought it over and decided there are really only a _couple_ things I would like to have this Christmas. You all know the lists I gave you on Monday?"

"Hard to forget," said Babs dryly, her fists unclenched. "I nearly threw my back out carrying it home."

"Hardy har har," Plucky replied sardonically. "Anyway, you all know the last five pages, the ones with the most expensive gifts? You can all just throw those pages away and keep the rest. That should narrow the ideas down a bit."

Nobody said anything. Hamton was too speechless (and enormously thankful) at how Plucky managed to turn the conversation away from the promise he just made and was, at this very moment, keeping.

"Narrow it down a bit?" Buster repeated, disbelieving. "Plucky, you practically wrote out the encyclopedia for Christmas presents. You can hardly call five fewer pages an improvement."

Plucky ignored this, pretending, Hamton knew, to look insulted.

"Well, I know what _I'm_ getting you, Plucky." said Babs, shaking her head with her arms crossed. "I'm gonna buy you a nice, large roll of duct tape — perfect for your oversized duckbill of a mouth. If nothing else, it'll stop you from being punched every time you say something stupid."

"Hmph," said Plucky with a shrug, "fair enough."

Hamton glanced back at Fifi, and, to his delight, saw that she looked thoroughly convinced.

"Well," Fifi said, "if you ask me, Plucky, I still think you would be better off if you just stop to think before you speak. All you need to do is practice a little."

"Oh, trust me, Fifi" he said heartily, "I'm doing it right now."

The other four nodded, knowing the secret truth behind Plucky's words.

"Anyway," said Buster all of a sudden, "since were on the subject of gifts, do you have any other ideas, Fifi? Other than the ones you told us at Frosty's, that is?"

Hamton noticed Buster's eyes glance momentarily towards him.

"Oh, non, not really," Fifi said, shaking her head with a smile. "Like I said, I will be happy with just about anything. Alzhough . . . admittedly . . . meeting _him_ would be most wonderful." Fifi did not elaborate who "he" was, but embraced the Cartoon Couples book in her arms.

"Well, I am going to get back to my book," said Fifi. "I am on ze most adorable chapter about an elephant boy and a cute little tiger girl." And with that, her beautiful smile never leaving, she turned and disappeared behind a bookshelf, her huge tail brushing the edge as she went.

Babs checked around the corner to make sure Fifi was gone before speaking. When she turned back, her eyes were wide.

"Plucky . . . " she said, practically speechless. "You . . ."

"What?" Plucky asked, an eyebrow raised.

"You . . . you thought before you spoke!"

If the library was quiet before, it was practically nonexistent with this statement.

Plucky, who at first looked a bit baffled, suddenly smiled. "Hey . . . I did, didn't I?"

"Not bad," said Buster, nodding. "Very convincing job."

"Yeah, like, excellent improv," Shirley commented, giving Plucky a one-armed hug.

"Ah, ghee..." Plucky rubbed the back of his head modestly. "I was just going along, you know."

"Thanks, Plucky," said Hamton, the amount of gratefulness etched in every syllable.

"No problem, pal. You really didn't think I would blab one of my best friends' secrets, now would you?"

Hamton shook his head. But Babs said, "Not for free, you probably wouldn't."

"Oh, shush, Babs," said Shirley in her boyfriend's defense. "Plucky's not that shallow. I, for one, think he was totally awesome in how he handled it."

Plucky blushed slightly. "Thanks, Shirls."

"Now, Hamton," said Buster, "you sure you still wanna do this?"

"Yes," said Hamton.

"Even though Fifi just told us for a second time that she'll like anything she gets?"

Hamton reconsidered, his gaze falling to the carpet where four pairs of feet stood. The world had gone quiet again.

Here was the deciding point, Hamton knew; what he chose to say next would determine what will happen over the course of the following weeks. He can go through with the plan he already started, putting his hopes on the Du Coeur perfume, _OR_ he can stop now while he's still ahead, leaving Fifi's gift to chance.

Hamton bit his lip and closed his eyes. The image of a purple, heart-shaped bottle floated in front of him. Though small, it felt like it weighed a thousand tons. Then, taking its place, Fifi appeared, looking at Hamton expectantly.

 _What is it zat_ you _want?_ she asked. _Be honest. What do you truly, truly want?_

And that was it.

Hamton opened his eyes and lifted his gaze. Eyeing his friends with confidence, he nodded.

"Okay, then," said Plucky in a tone of resolve. "Well, I wish you luck, Hamton."

"Like, me, too," said Shirley.

"Same here," Buster and Babs said simultaneously. And Babs added, "And don't worry. We won't say a word to Fifi."

The five of them separated and moved out from the shelves and back into the bright florescent light of the main study. Hamton returned to a table out in the open, reached into his pocket and pulled out his list of possible jobs. Unfolding it, he grabbed a nearby pencil and brought it to the paper, ready and eager for more brainstorming.

Fifi was seated a short ways away in an armchair, her face full of admiration as she read on about cartoon sweethearts.

Smiling, keeping Fifi just above his line of sight, Hamton returned to his list.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome, as always.**


	8. Jobs and Homework

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 _Jobs and Homework  
_  
 _~Dec. 3rd~_

Cartoon Logic was the first of the afternoon's two classes that day. The students all had their textbooks and college ruled notebooks ready, and with a few minutes before class started, they spent their time chatting about this and that, a few even practicing Wild Takes for the amusement of their friends.

Hamton, meanwhile, was sitting quietly at his desk, staring down at a list of job ideas with no satisfaction whatsoever.

 **Job Ideas for Gift**

 _-Shoveling snow  
_  
 _-(House) cleaning  
_  
 _-Cooking?  
_  
 _-Part time jobs?_

 _-Sell possessions_

 _-Donate self to science_

 _-Win the lottery_

In the time he spent in the library, Hamton had only been able to add these last three ideas, and none of them (especially the last) were written with any real seriousness. It was as though his mind were sputtering to gain ideas much the way a car would when it was on its last legs, and all it managed to churn out were three silly ideas, just so the page on which Hamton wrote them would appear less blank.

When the bell rang and Prof. Elmer Fudd walked in, Hamton sighed, folded up his list, and placed it in his pocket. Then he pressed his hands to his cheeks and listened only partially to what Prof. Fudd lectured about freezing in midair whenever someone shouted "STOP!"

The clock overhead, which usually kept silent, seemed to tick louder today as Hamton sat there, his mind halfway between cartoon freeze-frames and the minuscule list resting in the pocket of his overalls. He knew he 'ought to pay more attention to what was happening in class, but his brain wouldn't give him its full support. With every passing minute, December twenty-fourth and the Christmas party drew closer, and he did not have the faintest clue how he was going to raise enough money for the bottle of Du Coeur.

Why on earth did it have to be so expensive? It's not like the perfume would sell badly at a more reasonable price. But there was no use thinking this, Hamton knew; the price was set at one-thousand five-hundred dollars and it wasn't going to decrease for anyone, especially when it was already fifty-percent off.

 _I just got to get to work, plain and simple_ , thought Hamton. _Just two more hours, then I'll be free to go and start_.

But to Hamton's dismay, by the time 2:00 had rolled around, Prof. Fudd assigned a four-page paper on _Gravity: Moments it can be Defied and Why_ to be due on Friday.

"And wemember, cwass," said Prof. Fudd, "the Cawtoon Exams will be coming up soon. So be sure you pay attention to what you wead, and feel fwee to ask me if you have twouble undewstanding any of the matewial. Always wemember: there's no shame in asking for help."

The bell rang and drowned out Hamton's groan of disappointment. Though he knew the homework wasn't that difficult, it was bound to cut in the time he hoped to raise money. But he refused to let this discourage him. Hamton shook his head and forced himself to feel determined. He can get his homework done AND work to get Fifi's present. He can do both; he just has to focus! So, closing his notebook containing the notes he scribbled throughout the lesson, Hamton left with his friends and classmates for their last class of the day: Exploding Cakes.

Professor Yosemite Sam was waiting for them when the students arrived. Despite being only two feet tall, Prof. Sam made it clear he was not a teacher to mess around with. His long red mustache and beard hung from his assertive, unfriendly face — a face that looked as though it had been chiseled with a cactus and shaped for frightening outlaws at gun fights. His oversized cowboy hat was curved at the ends, very dusty, and blocked a full quarter of the chalkboard from view (and any student who pointed this out would find themselves in detention faster than they could say "long-eared varmint!")

When all the students were seated, none of them spoke but waited for the bell to ring, as was the norm when in Yosemite Sam's presence. Prof. Sam glared at them with his arms crossed, as though he were daring them to speak. The only one who didn't sit still or quietly in his desk was Montana Max, whose feet were propped up as he counted a large wad of one-thousand dollar bills, arrogantly humming "I'm in the Money".

When the bell finally rang, Yosemite Sam's rough, no-nonsense voice let itself loose upon the class. "Okay, you no-listenin', kiddie-cornered, cheap young-version cartoon varmints, listen up! And Monty!" he shouted, causing the rich boy to jump. "Quit countin' your loot and put your feet on the floor! Cheap clichés like that aren't welcome in my class!"

Now normally Monty would either bribe the teacher to let him have his way or would flat-out refuse in a tone of voice that was just as aggressive as the miniscule cowboy in front of him. But, seeing as this was his mentor who was speaking, Monty obeyed, crossed his arms, and matched Prof. Sam's aggressive look (though notably with buckteeth and no foot-long mustache).

"Okay, ya'll," sneered Prof. Sam, his voice dropping to a mild growl. "Today in Exploding Cakes, we're gonna to be studin' cakes and see which gives the best kinda kablooie!"

"Big surprise," Buster whispered.

"Now, as we've done several times before, we're gonna first read up on batter, decide which you'll use, and then get to baking. Ya'll know the drill. On ya mark," Yosemite Sam unsheathed one of his pistols (a starting pistol of course — school policy), "get set," he pulled back the hammer, "and GET BUSY!"

He pulled the trigger, and to everyone's alarm, an actual bullet exploded from the barrel and hit the ceiling, causing a piece of plaster to crack and fall on Yosemite Sam's head.

"All right," he growled to the students. "Which one of ya no-good-lollypop-singin' rascals switched me blanks for rubber?"

Nobody was stupid enough to answer.

Turning away from the hot-tempered cowboy, Hamton and his friends pulled their desks together to form a circle, then got out their books entitled _Explosive Desserts: Literal and Actual_.

Exploding Cakes was one of Hamton's favorite classes, not only because it involved free food but because his own experience with baking gave him (and thus his friends) an advantage, which usually guaranteed a surefire A+.

The class time drew on with Hamton and his friends chatting over the long list of possible ingredients to put into cakes, such as gunpowder, firecrackers, and good old-fashioned TNT.

"Oooh! Look at this one!" Babs said, eagerly pointing at a picture in her book. "Blazing Fire Cake, complete with party popper flowers and roman candles! I wouldn't mind a cake like that on my birthday."

"Great," said Buster sarcastically. "I'll be sure to alert the Acme Fire Squad so they'll be ready to extinguish the forest."

Babs stuck out her tongue in a teasing way, to which Buster returned with a smirking shake of his head.

From behind, Hamton heard other students, Dizzy Devil and Elmyra among them, making sounds that expressed their delight with the class.

"OOOOO!" Elmyra cried. "A cute widdo cake in the shape of a cute kitty-witty! I just want to eat him up!"

Dizzy Devil's dialogue was a lot less sappy, but also a lot less fluent. "Ooo, yum, yum! Big bomb cake taste good!"

"Pipe down, you walking, purple garbage truck!" shouted Yosemite Sam. "This ain't no kiddy bakin' time! This here's Exploding Cakes, so treat it seriously!" Turning back to his desk, Prof. Sam muttered something along the lines of, "Youngins these days. . . ." but nobody paid him any mind.

Despite Prof. Sam's firm attempt to make this class seem hardcore and dangerous, it couldn't change the fact that it was really fun discussing the different kinds of cakes and guessing how much frosting you would get blasted with.

All this fun and enjoyment made the hour go by quickly. In what felt like no time at all, the bell rang and Hamton looked up from a photograph of a beautiful chocolate cake to see that it was now 3:00. The school day was over.

"Okay, keep to ya seats, you eager group of hog-tied, sassafras drinkin', undisciplined group of a prairie dogs!" shouted Prof. Sam. "Now, I hope ya'll did more than laugh and squeal like a bunch of sissy girls and actually decided on a recipe or two, 'cause we're gonna be bakin' this Friday. Your assignment is to decide on a recipe and make sure ya know the right way to make it smack, dang perfect! We'll meet next time down in the cafeteria to do the work and anyone who doesn't want to be left back betta' be there! Winter Exams and all! Now hit the road, ya young, no-account, phrase-wastin' varmints!"

Hamton and the others wasted not a second in doing so. As he made his way out, he noticed every girl in the room shoot Prof. Sam a dirty look for his "sissy girls" comment. Yosemite Sam, however, didn't seem to notice. He had fallen back in his desk chair with a hand sliding down his face.

Before he was out the door, Hamton heard the undersized teacher say, "Ahie . . . this phrase-makin' business is gettin' harder every day..."

The sounds of moving feet and lockers being thrown open and closed came in every direction as Hamton and his friends made their way down the hall.

Plucky, who had rushed off to the bathroom, returned fully dressed in his red and black waiter's uniform.

"See you all later," said Plucky, fastening his bow tie. "Time for me to go to the Country Club and make some money," and trying to look calm with steady posture, he bid them all "goodnight."

Zipping up his winter coat, Hamton headed for the door Plucky had left through, glanced behind and said, "See you all tomorrow."

He barely heard his friends' farewells before he was outside the school, running down the steps and past the high statues of Bugs and Daffy. Glancing up at the Toons, Hamton saw white snow falling atop their stone shoulders and mortar boards. And sure enough, it was snowing all around the school and right on into the city.

 _Excellent_ , Hamton thought, running through the arch and down the city block. Really, he couldn't have asked for better weather, (at least with his prospect of Fifi's gift in mind).

Before the tall clock tower of Acme Loo reached 3:15, Hamton had made it home, grabbed his snow shovel, and ventured out into the beautiful white dusting that descended from the sky like a prayer.

"Second verse, same as the first."

* * *

Hamton knocked on as many doors as he could, from the houses he skipped last night to the ones that bordered the Acme Forest where Buster, Babs, and Plucky lived.

He shoveled snow and he scraped snow. He tossed it into piles and he stacked it onto lawns. He breathed and he panted, he heaved and he carried, and when his body finally decided that it could not scoop one more snowflake, Hamton staggered home, following the bright trail of streetlamps, his shovel scraping the snowy ground behind him.

He had no idea what time it was. The sun had gone down quite a while ago and he felt too tired to even turn his head and squint at the clock tower. It couldn't be _too_ late, though. He didn't even feel hungry, so it couldn't be past dinner time . . . right?

There were very few cars driving down the streets tonight, though Hamton did catch the first few snowplows cruising down the block, clearing the way for tomorrow's traffic. Nobody was on the sidewalks either, which were blanketed in a thin sheet of snow, not a footprint in sight. And the snowflakes were still falling — not nearly as much as it had when Hamton left school, but still tumbling evenly in the air before disappearing into the vast whiteness that layered the ground.

Hamton pressed a cold, numb hand to his chilled face. He had sweated a great deal during his shoveling and it now seemed to have frozen onto his forehead like a cool, crispy layer of cling wrap. His hat, coat sleeves and the bottom half of his overalls were covered in snow; he must've looked like a fat, little snowman walking down the sidewalk. The idea brought a tiny bit of humor to him.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath beside a lamppost, glowing on the street corner. At first Hamton regretted this, for stalling had made his muscles realize all the work he just put them through. They felt heavy and dull, and they even seemed to groan as Hamton let out an exhale that hung on the cold air before it disappeared. A second later, however, Hamton looked up, and what stood before him brought a sense of peace and ease that practically cleared away his exhaustion.

Now that Hamton gave notice to something other than the ground in front of him, he found that the scenery around his neighborhood was truly beautiful. The houses were lined and grouped like friendly cottages, the slanting roofs and smoky chimneys soft and smooth with the fallen snow, and the golden glow from the many windows gave a feeling of welcoming warmth. Someone had even found the time to build a snowman and tag him as "Parson Brown," coal smile and all.

Adoring all of this, Hamton picked up the pace again and pressed on towards home. Even his numbing hands felt renewed.

He let his snow shovel fall to the floor with a clatter the moment he stepped inside his house. The warmth it held was like a hug, and, for that wonderful moment of relief, Hamton imagined it was coming from Fifi. He hung up his snow-covered coat and hat on their hooks, then made way to his bedroom. After changing out of his damp overalls, Hamton glanced over at the alarm clock and nearly fell over in shock.

It was 8:15. He had been outside for over five hours, much longer than yesterday.

As expected, a loud roar issued from his stomach. Feeling suddenly famished, Hamton rushed to the fridge and pulled out an Acme Instant Pizza from the freezer.

He popped it into the oven and, in five seconds flat, pulled out a large, fully cooked everything-but-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.

Hamton smiled hungrily. When Acme said something was "Instant," they meant it.

He grabbed a soda from the fridge, sat down at the table and dug in. There were only two of the eight slices left when Hamton was finished. With a light belch, Hamton licked his fingers clean of pizza sauce and sighed with relief at having a full belly.

Deciding firmly that he'll leave the last two slices for another day, he placed them into the fridge and returned to his bedroom. Flicking on the light, Hamton pulled up to his desk, sat down, and grabbed the sheet of paper which told how far he still had to go before he could buy Fifi's perfume. The $1,500 at the top was scratched out, and underneath it was the current total: $1,345.

Taking a deep breath, all tiredness pushed away and his attention sharp and anxious, Hamton stood up from his desk and walked over to his laundry basket in which his damp overalls were laying neatly folded. He reached into the side pocket.

"Man . . ." he groaned, "I really should've taken it out when I changed." The money he had earned from shoveling snow was wet; not soaked through like his overalls, but still damp enough to leave moisture on his hands. Back at his desk, Hamton very carefully unfolded the dollars so as not to tear them and placed each one down separately to dry.

Dollar by dollar, Hamton counted it.

"Thirty, thirty-five . . . fifty . . . sixty dollars."

With a light smile, Hamton picked up his pen, worked the simple math, and wrote out the new amount.

 **$1,345**

 **-$60**  
 **(shoveling snow)**

 **$1,285**

Sixty dollars earned had brought the amount down and, though it was still a long ways away, Hamton was satisfied at being closer to Fifi's gift than he had been five hours earlier.

Though he could've happily gone to bed after such a busy night of work, Hamton knew better than to leave unfinished homework for later. So, after taking a quick trip to the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face, and grabbing a bag of chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen pantry, he returned to his room, pushed the damp money up to the desk's back edge, and grabbed his textbook and notebook from Cartoon Logic class. Seeing as it was the longest of his two assignments, he decided to start with Prof. Fudd's four-page paper on gravity in cartoons.

The cold splash in the face (and ten devoured cookies) stimulated Hamton long enough for him to write out the first page and half of the second. But after much rechecking from his textbook and planning out what he wanted to write on paper, Hamton found his eyelids drooping more and more often with each passing minute.

His head started to feel sluggish and fuzzy, and it was getting harder by the second to move his arms. Glancing over at his alarm clock on the nightstand, the red numbers read 10:00.

Letting out a great yawn, Hamton rubbed his sleepy face and decided that it was definitely time for bed.

Putting down his pencil, he pushed himself to his tired feet and left for the bathroom, yawning as he went. After his teeth were brushed and he made sure all the lights in the house were off, Hamton returned to his bedroom and gave his desk one last look. He would have to finish the rest of his gravity essay tomorrow. Plus, there was still that cake recipe he had to find and choose for Yosemite Sam's baking test on Friday, but that could be done in plenty of time — it probably wouldn't even take longer than thirty minutes. The bag of cookies, meanwhile, can remain on the desk, both for the next time he did homework or if he needed a late-night snack (whichever comes first).

And then there was the money. . . .

Placing his fingertips atop one of the dollars, Hamton felt that the bill was now dry. So he gathered the sixty dollars into a stack and carried it to the dresser where he placed it into the lunchbox hidden in the bottom drawer, right atop the money he had earned yesterday.

"I'm getting there," he told himself, patting the drawer as he stood up.

Crawling into bed, Hamton glanced out the window and at a tree in his front yard, its branches holding the snow that had piled since this evening. By the dim light of the streetlamps, Hamton saw that the white flakes had stopped falling. By tomorrow most of the streets would be smooth and most of the people's driveways will be cleared by some means or other.

Closing his eyes, Hamton put the last few of his thoughts for this evening not into his remaining homework, but into what he planned on doing next. He had known from the very start that he couldn't rely solely on shoveling snow to help him buy Fifi's gift. No. No, he would have to go beyond that if he was serious about this, if he was to have _any_ chance of reaching one-thousand five-hundred dollars before Dec. 24th.

But as Hamton lay in his warm bed, he was confident that he still had a chance. He still had time to do it . . . for himself and for Fifi. And that, to Hamton, was more important than any grade a teacher could ever hand out.

 _~$1,285 to go - 21 Days until Dec.24th~_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome, positive or negative. Things may seem simple now, but keep in mind, this is only the first week. Hamton's mission is only beginning.**


	9. Fliers and Messages

**DISCLAIMER:** **I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 _Fliers and Messages_

 _~Dec. 4th~_

Hamton woke early on Thursday morning with his head spinning. His usual peaceful sleep had been littered by a number of bizarre dreams that drifted between strange to outright banana-spewing crazy.

In the first dream, he was climbing a mountain-sized bottle of Du Coeur perfume and, just when he was about to reach the top of the perfume's cap, it came loose from the bottle. Screaming, still holding on to the cap, Hamton fell off the edge, but for some reason didn't die or even wake up.

In the second dream, he was walking the streets of Acme Acres and seeing multiple copies of himself doing everything imaginable — everything from fixing cars with his bare hands, to painting houses in the bitter cold, even making a snowman with nothing more than a pair of tweezers.

The third dream had taken place inside Hamton's own house. There he frantically cleaned everything in a way that was almost certifiable. He was sweeping AND mopping the floor with his feet, dusting and polishing with his hands, and, somehow, moving the vacuum cleaner with his teeth.

Of all these dreams, this last one proved to be the most significant because it gave Hamton an idea which, he hoped, may lead him closer to a regular sized bottle of Du Coeur perfume.

So after washing up, Hamton went to the kitchen to fry up two servings of over easy eggs for breakfast. Waiting for the eggs to cook in the frying pan, he ran back to his room and grabbed a few sheets of clean paper off his desk. With a black marker in hand, he returned to the kitchen table and quickly scribbled out a number of miniature posters.

The sizzling sound of eggs brought him back to the stove and he slid them onto a clean plate. With a sprinkle of shredded cheese, a dash of black pepper, and a rather full glass of orange juice, Hamton sat back down and read over his fliers:

 **House Needs Cleaning?**

 **Vacuuming? Disinfecting? Scrubbing?**

 **Call** **HAMTON J. PIG** **to schedule**

 _ **I'll work any house, big or small.**_

 _ **Guaranteed to make it shining and spotless**_

 _ **All for only**_ **$10.00**

 _ **Yes, you read it right.**_

 **$10.00!**

Chewing his breakfast, Hamton wrote his phone number on the stubs sticking at the bottom of each flier. By the time he cleaned his plate, he had finished with the last stub and drained his tall glass of orange juice in two gulps.

 _There_ , Hamton thought confidently, admiring the completed fliers. _This 'oughta bring in some extra money_.

If there was one thing Hamton took more pride in than a good meal, it was a house so clean that the owner would whistle in amazement — and he just so happened to be an expert when it came to making things shiny and spotless. It felt like a good idea, then, to offer up his skills to others. Hamton wasn't expecting to make a great deal of cash, but he felt it would, at least, be something else to add to the lunch box sitting safely in his dresser's bottom drawer.

Looking up at the clock, Hamton saw he had only fifteen minutes before he was usually out the door to join his friends in walking to school. So, using the first five minutes to brush his teeth and don his winter coat and hat, he chose to spend the last bit searching through his massive collection of cookbooks for a cake recipe — one, he hoped, would be excellent enough to wow Professor Yosemite Sam tomorrow in Exploding Cakes (a fairly challenging task at that).

Hmm . . . thought Hamton. Maybe a nice carrot cake. Given Prof. Sam's hatred of rabbits, it would probably be enough to make _him_ explode. Although . . . Buster and Babs might try that idea — they were carrot fanatics, after all.

But before Hamton could ponder any farther, he glanced again to the clock which told him it was time to go. Placing the chosen cookbook down on the table for later, he stuffed his fliers into his coat, locked the front door, and headed out for the city.

The snow from yesterevening lay upon the ground like soft powder. It lined the stretching fences, hung to the trees like large fluffy nests, and laid atop cars like they had been covered with blankets. To Hamton's delight, it wasn't as cold out as it had been last night, there being only a light breeze; his chilled, reddening cheeks were quite thankful for it. The sunshine pierced the overcast sky and Hamton had to squint for the first couple minutes as the light glared off the snow. But it didn't last long or really bother him that much. It was a truly tranquil morning as the first few cars started up and headed down the city streets.

Passing Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor, Hamton saw that someone had made a snowman right outside the shop doors. Clothed in a wool hat and scarf, it sported a nametag with the name "Parson Brown."

"Hmm," Hamton said thoughtfully. "I wonder if he had been made with tweezers. . . ."

* * *

"You guys go on, I just have a few things I got to hang up. See you all in class."

When he and his friends arrived at Acme Loo, the first thing Hamton did was head down the bustling hallway to hang his fliers for house cleaning. He brushed the coat and shirt sleeves of many students as they went here and there, grabbing their books and heading to the day's first classes.

After pinning up all his fliers on the school bulletin boards and taping a few on the walls, Hamton went back to his locker to deposit his coat. By then, most of the students had gone and left the hallway empty, so it came as a surprise to Hamton to find Shirley waiting for him by his locker.

"Hamton, like, over here!" she called, waving her white feathered hand.

"Hi, Shirley," said Hamton, opening his locker and putting away his coat. "What's up?"

"Ah, you know, the ceiling, the sky, the stars, my aura. Same old, same old," she said, giving a shrug.

Hamton smirked. "Well, that's nice. How was Plucky this morning?"

"Oh, he was fantastic!" she said brightly. "If you can, like, actually believe it, I managed to get him to try some morning yoga!"

"Really?" Hamton said, impressed. "That's great."

Shirley sighed wearily. "Yeah, it was at first, but he went for, like, five minutes before getting tired and impatient. But," she added on a happier note, "at least he tried it, so that's a start. Anyway, Hamton?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to talk to you for a couple minutes."

"Class is about to start, Shirley." He pointed up to the nearby clock. "Can't it wait 'till later?"

"Oh don't worry about the time," said Shirley, waving her hand. "These hallway conversations always last as long as we need them to. We've seen it, like, a million times on TV. It's like the clock stands still until we leave."

"Oh yeah . . . Warped Perception," said Hamton, remembering the lesson from Cartoon Logic. "So what do you need to talk about?"

Shirley didn't speak at first, but checked down both directions in the hall. Once certain that no one else was listening, she turned back to Hamton and spoke only loud enough for him to hear. "Okay. Listen, Hamton. Me, Babs, and Fifi went down to the Mall yesterday after school, just to pass the time and check out some clothes and other junk, you know?"

"Okay. . ." said Hamton, not really sure why she was telling him this.

"Anyway, we stopped at Shears 'cause Fifi wanted to check out the Du Coeur perfume, and it was there me and Babs both started thinking . . ."

She paused. Whatever it was that Shirley and Babs had been thinking, Hamton thought it must've been something very grave because Shirley's usual calm face seemed suddenly stressed.

She continued. "Well, as you know, Hamton, Du Coeur is very popular, with it currently being the most prized perfume in Europe, you know."

"I guess . . ." said Hamton, shrugging.

"Yeah, so, me and Babs both wondered, both then and from something Plucky said the other day — what if they run out before you can buy a copy for Fifi?"

Hamton frowned.

"Yeah . . . well, that _might_ happen, sure," he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt, though his timid voice gave himself away. "But really, Shirley, how likely is that? I mean, the perfume is so expensive."

"True, but you never know with these things. So," she added with a renewed smile, "that's why me and Babs came up with an idea that solved the little probla-mo."

Feeling as though a lead weight had just dropped into his stomach atop his digesting breakfast, Hamton looked at her in stunned disbelief. "You guys didn't buy one, did you? _Shirley_!"

"What?" she almost shrieked. "Like, no way! We would never want something _that_ expensive. Babs has, like, plenty of perfumes and I prefer my incense sticks. But forget that. As I was saying, we both thought that, to keep Shears from totally selling out, I should provide a little . . . influence."

"Influence?" repeated Hamton, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, a little mental rearranging here, a tad hypnosis there, psycho junk like that. Anyway, to be, like, super clear, I arranged things so Shears will hold a box of the perfume for you in case the supply runs short."

Hamton's mouth fell open. "You did? Really?"

"Yeah. It's packed away, safe and stored out of sight. Now you won't have to worry about them going out of stock."

It was a surprise the likes of which Hamton couldn't have anticipated or asked for. It was as though a very serious threat had just been neutralized, leaving Hamton to focus more clearly and calmly on the main task. The feeling of relief was indescribable, so, with the happiest smile he could form, he said, "Thanks, Shirley."

She returned his smile with her own and said, "Like, no probla-mo, Hamton. What are friends for? Anyway, let's go," she added, pointing her thumb over her shoulder to a wall clock, which before had been motionless and was now moving again, "we're gonna be late for class."

"Huh? Oh, right!" Hamton had been so surprised by Shirley's wonderful news that he forgot they were still in school. Grabbing their books and notebooks from their lockers, they both hurried off down the hallway.

Everything now seemed ten times brighter to Hamton: It was as though the sun had broken through the school roof and was shining down on him, reminding him that there was still a ray of light to be seen and felt.

Just as they were a few footsteps away from the classroom door, however, Shirley sprinted in front of Hamton with her hand outstretched. (Hamton could've sworn he heard the nearest clock screech to halt.)

"One last thing, Hamton," she said, and her tone was suddenly serious. "I know it's not, like, something you know a lot about, but mental spells are . . . complicated."

"I bet they are," he said. "I wouldn't even know where to begin. It's amazing that _you're_ able to do it, though."

"Well . . . kinda. . .but, you see. . . ."

The look on her face made Hamton frown. "Shirley?"

She sighed in resign. "The truth is, Hamton, I had a little trouble planting the suggestion into the Shears workers, and I was lucky to get as far as I did."

"So what does that mean?" he asked, his imaginary light starting to dim.

"Oh, it's not, like, _too_ much to worry about," Shirley assured him. "Shears _will_ hold the perfume for you, just not forever. The influence I placed on the Shears staff will only hold until the end of December 23rd, the day before the Christmas party."

Hamton gaped. "I have until the 23rd?" he asked, a little louder than he meant to.

"I hope that's okay, Hamton," said Shirley, looking slightly worried. "It was the best I could do given how much influence I had to plant. I chose the 23rd because it seemed pointless extending the time beyond then, seeing as Shears will be closed for Christmas Eve. Not to mention you plan on giving Fifi her gift on the day of the party, so, like, any time afterwards would be too late. So, Hamton," she looked him straight in the eye, "you've got to make sure you buy the perfume before the store closes on that day, otherwise it'll be up for grabs to anyone else who gets there first. Got it?"

Hamton hesitated at first, feeling slightly annoyed for having this unexpected news sprung upon him. But at the same time he couldn't deny that Shirley made sense on both points. And besides, she went to so much just to help him.

Smiling, Hamton replied, "Got it. And don't worry, the 23rd is fine with me. The fact that you went this far to help is more than I could've asked for. Seriously, thanks _so_ much for this, Shirley."

Shirley smiled and nodded. "Like, no probla-mo," she said.

Then, using her mental abilities, she pulled the classroom door open and held it aloft to let Hamton in.

* * *

After four unstressful hours of Bird Chasing, Spotlight Stealing, and double Outwitting, Hamton and his friends headed to the cafeteria with the rest of their grade for lunch. Upon arrival, a warm, steamy scent drifted down the lunch line, coupled with the delicious aroma of melted cheese and frying butter.

Buster sat down next to Babs and Hamton, gave a slow inhale through his nose and sighed with satisfaction. "Nothing like grilled cheese and tomato soup on a cold day."

"Except when its grilled carrots and carrot soup, or carrot anything, I bet?" Plucky said dryly.

Everyone, including Buster and Babs, gave a humored smile. Babs responded, "Funny, but we don't eat carrots _every_ day, Plucky. We like variety just like everyone else."

"Yeah, well," said Plucky, picking up his spoon, "at the rate I see you guys eat 'em, I'm surprised you two haven't turned orange yet."

Rolling their eyes, Buster and Babs each dunked half of their grilled cheese slices into their bowls.

Buster's statement about their lunch proved quite accurate: the soup was hot and sweet, and, combined with the crispy, gooey grilled cheese, made a perfect lunch for this brisk winter day.

Besides the usual mild chit-chat, Hamton and the others past the time listening to Plucky gripe about work last night at the Country Club. While it may be annoying to some, the five of them found Plucky's comments funny, if not a little obnoxious.

"I mean, a six-dollar tip?" said Plucky, outraged and shaking his soup spoon. "Six dollars when the meal cost over fifty? That service deserved at _least_ ten bucks! I mean, haven't I proven my worth as a waiter after all these years?"

Fifi gave a muffled chuckle, having just taken a sip from her soup. Swallowing, she said, "Plucky, you and I have only worked zhere for over a year. Do you not remember? We both joined ze same month."

"Well, it feels like it's been years for _me_ ," said Plucky, taking a bite from his grilled cheese. "I hope it goes better tonight. Maybe your harp playing will help. I've always noticed I seem to get better tips on the nights you play."

"People appreciate a good tune with a good meal," said Babs. "And Plucky, it might help if you stop grumbling so much every time you don't get a large tip."

"Yeah, yeah, fine. . .," said Plucky grudgingly, taking one large bite and finishing off his grilled cheese.

Hamton bit down again into his, appreciating the crispy bread and the soft cheesy center. He then spooned some tomato soup, savoring the combined taste. As he was about to swallow, Buster spoke, "So, Hamton, you're starting a little cleaning service?"

Hamton froze and at once swallowed more than he would've liked. Coughing a little, he cleared his throat from the sudden gulp, then said, "Uh —*cough* well, yes. You saw my fliers, I'm guessing?"

"Yep," Buster answered. "We saw them as we walked to lunch."

Deciding that it really wasn't a big deal that they all knew, Hamton calmly shrugged. "It's just a little something I thought might help since the holidays are coming up. I could use a little extra money."

Hamton looked directly at Buster as he spoke this last sentence. He couldn't explain any further with Fifi present, but, looking at the four of his other friends who knew, all who remained calm and poised, Hamton could tell that they understood the true meaning of his decision to start a small cleaning service.

"That sounds like a good idea," said Babs. "You planning on doing it after school, Hamton?"

"Whenever I can," he clarified, putting his spoon down into his half-empty soup bowl. "The person who wants cleaning will schedule a time with me and I'll do it when I have the chance. Not sure how much I'll be able to do, though" said Hamton, only now realizing this fact. "Depending on what they want me to clean, some places might take longer to do. I might not even get that many calls, seeing as I only put up the fliers here in the school."

"Perhaps you can make more fliers and spread zem throughout ze city, non?" Fifi suggested.

"Yeah, Hamton," said Buster. "Spreading the word is a crucial step for business, even small services like yours."

"Maybe," said Hamton, "but for now I'd just like to see what I can get here at school. If I have to, I'll make more and ask the local businesses to post them in their windows — _if_ they'll allow it, that is."

"Well, that sounds like an excellent idea," said Babs encouragingly.

"Yeah. We all know how much you love to clean," said Plucky. "Whether it be a dirty floor or the food on your plate, _no one_ does it like you, pal."

"Plucky!" snapped Babs.

"No, it's okay," said Hamton, chuckling at this statement. "Plucky's right — on both points."

"If you'd like, Hamton," said Babs, "I could ask my Mom if she wants help cleaning our home. Given how huge my family is, I think she'd appreciate any extra help."

"Would you?" asked Hamton eagerly. "If you wouldn't mind —"

"Of course I don't mind," said Babs. "Plus you'd be doing _me_ a favor. Any way I can get out of cleaning the place is _always_ fine with me. I'll talk to her and let you know as soon as I can."

"We'll see what we can do, too," said Buster, looking to Plucky, Fifi, and Shirley, who all nodded. "We'll let others know about your offer to clean. We'll spread the word, if that's okay."

For a moment, Hamton didn't know whether to look shocked or happy. So, instead, he just beamed. "Yeah! Yeah, of course it's okay! Thanks, guys!"

Owing nothing to the food he had eaten, a great sense of warmth flooded through Hamton as though he were bundled next to a camp fire.

His friends had helped him not once, but _twice_ in the same day. Could things get any better, Hamton wondered?

To his surprise and delight, it did.

When the six of them left the cafeteria to spend the rest of the lunch hour chatting in the hall, Hamton looked over at one of the school's bulletin boards and saw with eagerness that one of the stubs from his fliers had been torn off.

I'm well on my way, Hamton thought, smiling.

 _Let's just hope you can make it in time_ , replied his ominous inner voice.

* * *

It was with immense relief that no homework was given in either Calculations or Destruction class, as it reminded Hamton on his way to his locker that he still had two assignments waiting at home, both of which he knew he had to finish tonight.

Shouldn't be too hard, though, he thought. He already had a start on his Cartoon Logic essay, and really, how difficult can it be to decide on a cake recipe?

Hamton zipped up his winter coat and turned in time to see Plucky return from the bathroom, dressed in his dress shirt and red waiter's vest.

Walking outside into the cold, partly-cloudy afternoon, Plucky and Fifi both waved goodbye to the group and set off for the Country Club. Given that they all had homework to do, Hamton and the others gave one another a quick "see you tomorrow" and went off on their different paths towards home.

Upon entering his house, Hamton's first thoughts were on starting his homework and getting it out of the way. Then, afterwards, he could devote some time to plot out how to go about and earn some more money.

But before Hamton could even make it out of the entryway, he paused in the living room when he saw the blinking of a small red light. It was coming from his phone's answering machine.

Sure of what this must mean, Hamton dropped his coat to the floor, ran into the living room, and pressed the Play button on the machine.

"You have THREE new messages," said the machine in its automated voice. "First message."

"Hello, Hamton. This is Granny. I saw your ad on the bulletin board today and would like to schedule a time when you can come and clean my house. I think it's so good of you youngsters taking such responsibility and trying to get a job. Well, anyway, give me a call when you have the time, dear. If not, I'll see you at school and we can do it then. Oh, and by the way, Hamton, please be sure to get plenty of sleep. I don't want you drifting off in my class again like you did on Tuesday. Buh-bye."

 _Yes!_ Hamton thought eagerly. _First customer in only the first day!_

"Second message," said the machine. This next one came from someone else Hamton knew — this one being quite younger and, if Hamton must say, quite looney.

"Hey, Pig-A! Gogo Dodo calling! I heard from you and your friends in lunch today that you're looking for some things to clean. Well, Wackyland is getting a bit messy, even for my twisted taste buds. So, drop me a message or shoot me a note when you get the chance. Or, if that's all too literal for you, just use a telephone and call me. You know how to call out 'Wackyland', right? See ya!"

 _Wow . . ._ Hamton thought, hardly believing his good luck. Two customers already. . . .

"Third message," said the machine.

The last message wasn't a job offer. From out of the machine spoke a voice that was both sweet and cheery — one that Hamton had known all his life.

"Hi, Hamton, sweetie. We got your letter, which means that you must've gotten ours. Me and your father are happy you're doing fine and hope the snow isn't making you too cold. It almost makes us feel bad that we get to spend most of our time in the warm sun. But, hey, at least you don't have to worry about sunburn, right? You do remember where we left the electric blanket and footie pajamas in case of an emergency, right?

"Anyway, Hamton, we've talked it over and me and your father think we'll be stopping by next week either on Wednesday or Thursday. We still have to figure out which day works out best for us, but you can definitely expect to see us on one of those days.

"I hope you're happy and aren't starving yourself, sweetie. We'll have us a nice big dinner when we visit. Until then, take care and keep up your school work, my smart little man! Mommy and Daddy love you! Bye!"

The moment the message ended, Hamton jabbed down on the delete button, feeling undyingly thankful that no one else had been there to listen.

 _Love you both, too, Mom,_ he thought. _But, geez, be careful what you say in your messages!_

"Message deleted. End of messages," said the machine with a final BEEP.

 _Still . . . it'll be good to see you two. Until next week then. . . ._

With his plans changed, Hamton returned to the entryway to hang up his coat and hat, then made his way back to the couch and picked up the phone's receiver.

* * *

"Okay, Hamton," said Granny on the phones' other end. "I'll see you tonight at 6:30. Do you have your own cleaning supplies, dear?"

"Oh, yeah, don't worry about it, Granny," said Hamton, leaning back on the couch. "I always keep plenty of supplies handy. I'll see you at 6:30, then."

"Okay, dear. Bye."

"Bye, Granny."

Hamton hung up the phone and then picked it up again, now planning to dial the number for Wackyland. His finger was an inch from the buttons when, at that moment, it suddenly occurred to Hamton that there was a small problem: that being he didn't have the slightest idea what to dial.

He had never called Wackyland before on account that he and Gogo never really talked or hung out (not outside of school or _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , that is). Not to mention, Wackyland was just far too crazy for Hamton's tastes. He didn't hate the place, but it wasn't his choice idea for a weekend get-away.

So how else could he get ahold of Gogo? Gogo didn't leave a phone number in his message and Hamton didn't own a phonebook; the only people he ever needed to call were his parents and friends (and, on regular occasion, Presto Pizza: Acme's Acres number-one pizza place), and he had all _their_ numbers down by memory. The only reason he had Granny's phone number was because all the school teachers and principal provided contact information at the beginning of Fall term.

So, what else could he do?

With the phone's receiver still in his hand, Hamton stared down at the bottom-most number.

"Hmm . . . well, first time for everything, I guess."

Not knowing what else to do, Hamton pressed the zero and waited as the phone purred its familiar ringback.

A few seconds later, he heard. . .

"Hello, this is the Operator," said the Operator.

"Uh, hi," said Hamton. So this was what it's like to dial zero. . . . "Can you please connect me to Wackyland in Acme Acres?

"Wackyland?" repeated the Operator.

"Yes, Wackyland."

"Oh, that's simple, sir. All you have to do is call out 'Wackyland.'"

And without so much as another word, she disconnected the call.

Hamton stared opened-mouthed at the opposite wall as the phone droned in his ear.

"What?" he asked, looking at the phone. Certain that there had been a misunderstanding, Hamton dialed the zero again.

"Hello, this is the Operator," she said a second time.

"Hello?" said Hamton, his voice clear and paced. "Can you — hear me? I would like — to call — Gogo Dodo in Wackyland — which is — in — Acme — Acres!"

There was a pause, then the Operator said, "I told you before, sir, all you have to do is call out 'Wackyland.' Have a good evening, then." And again, she hung up.

"Hey, wait!" Hamton shouted, but there was nothing to speak to except the droning sound.

His brow furrowed, Hamton jabbed the zero for a third time and waited, glaring at his reflection in the TV screen.

"Hello, this is —"

"Hello!" Hamton shouted, his fist clenched. "Listen to me! I want to call Wackyland! Okay? I don't understand how I'm supposed to call it if you don't connect me or give the number!"

"Sir, you don't dial _anything_ ," said the Operator patiently. "Wackyland doesn't have any traditional landline, cartoon or otherwise, so I can't connect you. You have to _literally_ call out 'Wackyland' into your phone and then it will take care of the rest. I'm sorry I wasn't more clear in my description. Now, have I cleared that all up?"

"Uh . . . sure?" said Hamton.

"All right, then" she said. "Once again, I wish you a good evening, sir. Goodbye." And for the third time, she ended the call.

Hamton looked curiously down at the phone's receiver. Was the Operator being serious? All he had to do was say "Wackyland?" Trying to think outside his normal sense of reason, Hamton remembered that, in Gogo's message, he had plainly said "call out Wackyland."

Slowly, Hamton placed the receiver back to the side of his head. He hesitated for a moment, then, feeling slightly stupid, he spoke into the mouth piece. "Uh . . . Wackyland, please?"

A split-second later, there came a ringing tone, meaning that his call was going through. The sound instantly quelled Hamton's irritation.

The phone only hummed once when a new voice, a woman's, answered with a straight, uninterrupted tone, very much like a recording.

"Thank you for calling Wackyland. Please state the name of the person, persons, persona, or other preposterous perplexity that you wish to speak to."

Hamton stuttered. "Uh . . . I want to talk to Gogo Dodo, please."

The phone immediately let out another ringing tone. Next thing he knew, Hamton leapt a good five feet into the air, hit the ceiling and landed back on the couch as a clear, loud voice proclaimed, "Hellooooooo! Gogo Dodo speaking."

Getting over his shock, Hamton rubbed the crown of his head and spoke, "Gogo, it's me, Hamton. Ow. . ."

About a minute later, he and Gogo had set everything in order.

"So, Sunday at 1:00 in the afternoon?" asked Hamton.

"Yep," said Gogo. "That sounds, looks, and feels good to me. And I also think it'll be a good time to come over and help me, too. I'd let you come and do it sooner but I have important things to be doing and _you_ , my friend, will have something very important _you_ will be doing."

"Yeah, I — hey, wait! What do you —?"

"Well, Hamton, I'll see you on Sunday and/or in school. Maybe neither, probably both. Until then, stay weird and _hello_!"

And with that, Gogo ended the call, leaving Hamton to wonder just what Gogo was talking about and what insanity he had just agreed to put himself into.

* * *

About an hour later in his bedroom, Hamton finished writing his essay for Cartoon Logic.

. . . _Seeing as the laws of physics in cartoons are dependent on both situation and the personality of the character, the normal laws of physics do not normally take effect until someone realizes they are defying them._

 _In the example of gravity, a person walking off a ledge will not fall but continue to walk normally as though there were an invisible bridge beneath their feet. Gravity will only take effect if the person looks down, thus shattering the illusion, or their concentration becomes so shaky that it knocks them out of the air._ . . .

. . . _Fear can also break the cartoon laws of gravity. If the person is scared enough, they can jump so high that their head might hit a satellite in space. . . ._

"Or the ceiling in their living room," Hamton added dryly.

 _. . .Ultimately, when it comes down to it, gravity, or any law of physics, can only be broken when the situation calls for it, mainly when a Toon wishes to bring about humor or else to help overcome something otherwise impossible. Even in cartoons, there has to be some sense of order, otherwise everything would collapse onto itself._

Reading it once over and correcting any spelling errors he made, Hamton felt sure that his essay was, at least, passable.

"Okay," he said happily, putting down his pencil and standing up from his chair. "Now time for cake."

He headed off to the kitchen.

There was, of course, no cake to snack on. The cake in question was in a cook book that had been browsed through that morning.

Picking up the book resting on the kitchen table, Hamton spent a few minutes looking at all the cake recipes that were listed before returning to one that made his imagination purr.

It was a two-layer chocolate cake, decorated with white lace frosting, topped with beautiful, juicy red strawberries and just lightly dashed with powdered sugar. Hamton spent five whole minutes staring fixedly at it: the rich texture of the frosting, the hearty dark brown of the cake, the way it sat on the plate, practically begging to be served.

Hamton didn't need to look any farther; this was the cake he wanted to make for Exploding Cakes tomorrow. Even if its ultimate end was to explode, Hamton couldn't imagine a better cake to bake for whatever reason.

With his stomach rumbling, Hamton turned to see the kitchen's wall clock read 5:30 and decided now was a good time for some supper before heading off to Granny's.

 _~$1,285 to go - 20 Days until Dec.24_ _th~_

* * *

 **All comments and criticism are welcome. Hamton bakes an explosive cake next time. Guess who his partner will be.**


	10. Cakes and Cruelty PART I

**Another installment, finally.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 _Cakes and Cruelty_

 _PART I_

 _~Dec. 5th~_

Hamton woke on the morning of December Fifth feeling groggy, stubbornly wishing he could've stayed in bed for just a little while longer. Off to one side, sunlight glistened in through the frost-c0vered window. The piercing white rays stung Hamton's eyes, making him flinch and turn over atop his blankets where he now came face with his alarm clock on the nightstand.

6:55 stared back at him in glaring red numbers.

 _Translation: Time for school._

Breathing a tired moan, Hamton mustered his energy and pushed himself up from his bed, wincing as he did so.

His muscles were aching and his arms and sides were stiff. With his legs hanging over the bed side, he let out a yawn as his energy slowly came to him. As it did, Hamton became suddenly aware that he was wearing not his pajamas, but his winter coat. He could also detect, though faint, the damp odor of lemons.

Puzzled, these details wiping away his fatigue, Hamton stared down at his coat sleeves, then to a duffel bag lying beside the bedroom door, then to his desk where a list lay atop.

It was the sight of this list that evoked Hamton's memory, and before he knew it, the previous night was replaying itself in his mind's eye.

* * *

 _~Dec. 4_ _th_ _, evening~_

Upon finishing a quick supper, Hamton went to the hallway closet that held his cleaning supplies. The inside was neat and orderly, and seemed to have been cleaned with the very products it held. From the shelves he grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and window cleaner, a duster and a washrag, a broom and dustpan, a huge box of disposable gloves, and, sitting faithfully in the backmost corner, a high quality vacuum cleaner. Hamton stuffed it all (even the vacuum cleaner) into an Acme Ultra-Storage Duffel Bag, which held everything with ease and all under ten pounds.

Before heading out the door, Hamton also took along his snow shovel in case Granny wanted some help in her driveway — which, to his luck, she did.

After being welcomed in, Hamton went straight to work, starting with Granny's living room and kitchen, then moving up to her bedroom on the second floor. Altogether, it was a pretty simple job.

Once the inside cleaning was done, Hamton shoveled away the snow in Granny's driveway. He was in such a good mood that, by the end of it, he didn't feel tired at all.

Thankful for such a fine job, Granny awarded Hamton an extra ten dollars, totaling to twenty for the whole labor.

"Thanks for all the help, Hamton!" Granny called, waving as he started for home down the lamp lit, snowy street. "And remember, it's a school night, so be sure to get enough sleep!"

"No worries, Granny, I will!" he said.

But unfortunately Hamton wouldn't get to bed until past midnight. On his way home, he spotted three houses with snow piled in their drives and, still feeling joyful over his twenty-dollar payment, Hamton wheeled around to knock on the front doors. The residents, delighted by Hamton's convenient offer, gave him five dollars apiece.

By the time he started on the second driveway, Hamton's joy had completely evaporated. His muscles were aching and his feet were beginning to hurt, but knowing how much he needed the money, he joylessly forced himself to push on — tired, sweaty, all the while his hands and overalls reeked of lemony-scented cleaner.

And so Hamton arrived home out of breath, dragging his snow shovel from behind and his Ultra-Space Duffel Bag hanging lop-sided off his shoulder.

He had just enough strength to subtract his thirty-five dollars earned from the list on his desk. Then, without bothering to brush his teeth, he collapsed right onto his bed and fell asleep in under a minute, his winter coat serving as a blanket.

 _$1285_

 _-$20 (cleaning for Granny)_

 _-$15 (shoveling snow)_

 _$1250_

 _~$1250 to go - 20 Days until Dec. 24th~_

* * *

 _~Dec. 5th, morning~_

With hardly any time to spare, Hamton quickly showered, changed into a fresh pair of overalls, devoured two toaster pastries, and packed away his homework along with the cake recipe he copied down from the cook book. Then, rushing through the living room to the front door, he pulled on his coat and hat and hurried out of the house.

The Friday morning air was bitterly cold; it sank past Hamton's winter coat and stabbed into his skin, making his trek down the neighborhood street painful with each step. He stuffed his already numb hands deeper into his pockets and tried thinking of the warmth back in his house, hoping the thought would warm him physically. It didn't.

The cold got worse the longer Hamton walked. A harsh, icy wind howled and whistled over the towering buildings; the whole city seemed to be breathing frost. What was more, Hamton's muscles, which had eased up after his shower, were now back to being sore again — so between feeling like he was trapped at the South Pole and feeling as though he had been tenderized, Hamton was thoroughly miserable, and he wasn't even halfway to school yet.

When he caught up with Buster and Babs on the first city block, they each had one arm around the other as they moved. Anyone curious and foolish enough to stop for a moment and look in this frigid weather may have thought the two rabbits were snuggling. But Hamton was close enough to see how hard his friends were shivering, huddled beside each other, trying to keep themselves warm.

"H-H-Hi, H-Hamton," Buster said, his teeth chattering.

"H-Hey," said Babs, keeping her cheek pressed close to her boyfriend.

"Good morning," Hamton replied, and that was all they said as they continued towards school. It was so cold out it even made Hamton's teeth sting.

Plucky and Shirley joined them shortly afterwards; they too were huddled together, trying to preserve warmth. Plucky's plumage looked slightly more blue than green today and the only thing he bothered to speak was bitter envy of anyone traveling in a warm car. Shirley was apparently trying to master her impulse to shiver, but Hamton could see an expression of gloom every time the frigid wind blew in their direction.

When they reached the City Dump, Fifi walked out from the opening in the wood fence. This time, in addition to her white scarf, Fifi had her whole tail wrapped around her body like a long, thick blanket — held tightly with her arms, her face partially covered. She looked as miserable to be out in the blowing wind as Hamton and the others. Not bothering to speak, she simply nodded to her friends and kept to the fast-walk they all had going.

The windows of nearly every business was coated in prickly frost; Hamton vaguely wondered if the heat inside made any difference. The only place that didn't seem to be affected, oddly enough, was Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor. Despite that it was closed, the shop looked as cozy at it had been on Monday when Hamton and his friends stopped there for ice cream.

Hamton eyes, watering due to the cold, spotted the Parson Brown snowman still standing by the shop doors, smiling at what must've been a spectacular day for snowmen everywhere.

Hamton turned his sight upward. The clock tower was getting larger and taller, which meant he and his friends were getting closer to school — beautiful, toasty school.

"Almost there," he whispered, the cold air chilling his lips.

VRRRROOOOOOOMMMMM!

Feeling as though a jagged block of ice had been pushed down their backs, Hamton and his friends jerked around at the eruption of roaring tires. A mile-long limousine made entirely of gold shot up down the street and slowed once it was next to them. Hamton saw his miserable face reflected in the dark window before it rolled down, revealing Montana Max and his nasty, buck-tooth grin.

"Hey, peasants! The frostbite treating you well?" he asked cruelly. "The Acme Weather Forecast says it's ten-below this morning. Don't worry about me, though, there's plenty of heat in my limo. Soooo warm, soooo comfy. Too bad I don't allow rabbits, chickens, and filthy, fat pigs. And really, who'd want to be around a smelly junkyard dog?"

Hamton's teeth clenched behind his dry, tightly shut lips. He had never been fond of Monty, but he had always been able to ignore his petty insults reasonably well. But hearing what Monty just called Fifi made Hamton's fists tighten in his pockets, and despite the freezing temperature, he felt his burning blood heat him like a kiln.

Hamton and his friends kept walking, the limo cruising beside them, but Hamton didn't take his eyes off Monty. He continued to glare, hoping it would scorch the snotty rich boy and reduce his golden ride to a smoldering pile of scrap metal.

But then, with a thrill of shock, a snowball whizzed past Hamton and hit Monty square in the face, causing him to fall backwards into his limousine.

Hamton jerked his head around and saw Babs, whose pink hand was covered in snowflakes.

Monty reemerged in the window, his teeth bared and glaring at Babs, who glared back with equal dislike.

"Why don't you take that black-market fur coat and shove it down your buck-toothed mouth, Monty!" she snapped.

Monty growled. "Watch what you say to me, Rabbit!"

"Then watch what YOU say!" Babs retorted, her voice dripping with venom.

"Oh, yeah?" Daringly, Monty stuck his head and arms out the window. "I'll have you know, Rabbit, that I'm rich and can have your filthy tail ripped right off your fat, pink —" whatever threat Monty was going to issue never left his lips as another snowball flew straight into his face — this one was the size and shape of a bowling ball, complete with the sound of pins falling.

"Like, take that, Monty!" Shirley declared. "And while you're at it, learn to chill out! Shouldn't be too hard in this weather."

Gasping and shivering, Monty pulled back into his limo, shouting inaudible curses before rolling up the window and speeding off towards school.

Babs immediately grabbed Buster's hands and he rubbed them quickly with his own, trying to warm them.

"Good throw, Shirls," said Plucky, his arm around Shirley while patting her shoulder.

Hamton would've complimented her too, but his sight was fixed on someone else. Perhaps it was just due to the cold, but Hamton thought he saw what might've been a tear, frozen in the fur just underneath Fifi's eye.

* * *

Never had Hamton and his friends felt more thankful to step inside Acme Loo. The warm hallway was like a breath straight from the hearth of Heaven.

Plucky was so happy to be inside that he exclaimed, "Thank goodness for wonderful, glorious school!" — something nobody would ever expect him to say, even in their dreams.

Fifi slowly unwrapped her large fluffy tail from around herself. Hamton felt his face go slightly red as this happened, and was thankful the cold weather had already done the job of making his cheeks red, thus camouflaging his blush.

But Hamton's flushing went south at seeing Fifi's expression. She didn't look teary or miserable, but there was a stillness to her which Hamton didn't like; it didn't fit with Fifi's beautiful features or her kind, sweet self. It made Hamton feel slightly rotten and somehow cold, regardless that he had just left the frigid winter air.

If Fifi was upset, though, she hid it quite effectively. Letting out a loud exhale, she said, her voice quite normal, "Sacré-bleu! Ze wind was ferocious, non? I thought I was going to freeze!"

"Yeah, me too," said Buster, who was massaging his long blue ears. "I knew I should've bought my ear warmers." He turned to his girlfriend. "You doing okay, Babsy?"

"Fine," said Babs simply, who looked less chilly and more concerned. "Fifi?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

Fifi looked at her questionably. "What do you —?"

"You know . . ." Babs shirked her head in the direction of the doors they had just walked through. "Back on the street, when Monty came. . . ."

Fifi blinked, still looking puzzled. Then, with a quick smirk, she threw her hand to the air and shook it.

"Oh, oui, do not worry," she said with a laugh. "I am simply _fantastique_."

Despite this cheery response, Hamton couldn't help but frown a little. And, glancing to the others, he could see they were of similar minds.

"It is nothing to fret about, please, mes amies," Fifi assured them. "Have we not all been scorned by Montana Max? He treats _everyone_ like garbage, so let us not worry. Besides," Fifi straightened up, "it will take a lot more zen a simple insult to hurt _moi_. 'Junkyard dog', hmph!" she scoffed. "And what does zat that make Monty? A buck-toothed cash cow?"

Hearing this comeback seemed to awaken Babs to her usual spirited self.

"You said it, Fifi!" she cheered.

Shirley threw her fist into the air, "Yeah, rock on!"

Buster and Plucky nodded. "Hmm-hmm!"

Hamton said, "You tell him!" but inside, he felt a great swarm of admiration for the beautiful, proud skunk. Anyone can sink beneath the weight of words — Hamton certain did many times in the past — but Fifi here pushed aside the meaningless insult and kept her chin up.

It just goes to show that there was more to Fifi than a pretty face, and that only increased Hamton's regard.

"Now," Fifi said happily as they walked to their lockers, "enough about me. What about ze four of _you_?" She said this last bit with the greatest of interest. Smirking, she slyly asked, "Big romantic plans for tonight?"

Hamton looked to Buster, Babs, Shirley, and Plucky, who were all blushing.

"Oh, you know, Fifi," shrugged Babs, "nothing too spectacular. I mean, with this weather, a movie might be all that me and Buster will do."

"I was thinking along the same pages," said Buster. "Not sure what movies are playing tonight, but the surprise is usually half the fun. We might head to Frosty's afterwards, share a carrot sundae. Hopefully the wind will have died down by then."

"And you two?" Fifi asked to Plucky and Shirley, beaming at them.

"Like, Plucky and me are thinking of going to the Mall," answered Shirley. "We're gonna check out a few shops that look mighty stylish."

"And extremely boring," Plucky whispered to Buster and Hamton.

"Oh, come on, Plucky," said Shirley who had heard him, her hands on her hips. "We'll stop at the places you like, too."

"Yeah, after about five hours," Plucky scoffed. "Just promise me we'll go down to the food court in time for supper."

"Sure, sure," said Shirley, shaking her head with a bemused smile.

And with that, Buster, Babs, Shirley, and Plucky headed off to their classes, leaving Hamton alone with Fifi, the only ones who hadn't yet opened their lockers. The latter, who stared lovingly after the two young couples, folded her hands to the side of her face and let out a soft, "Le sigh... Love is simply merveilleux, is it not, Hamton?"

"Yeah..." he said meekly, staring at her without notice, "it truly is. . . ."

* * *

The school day went on without fuss or gloom. Everyone was eager to be out of the frost-biting winter wind, and, being Friday, it was almost the weekend, and that was enough to warm anyone's spirits.

Hamton handed in his essay for Cartoon Logic and, from what Prof. Fudd later discussed in class on gravity and cartoons, felt he did a fair job explaining it on paper. Plus, with Hamton's muscles no longer aching him, the day was passing by without a hitch.

The only homework that got assigned for the weekend were two pages of math problems in Calculations class, due Monday. This, to Hamton, was excellent news; he would have most of all weekend, including tonight, to work for Fifi's present.

But for the time being, Hamton's thoughts of outside work were put on hold for the last class of the day, one he was excited for.

When he and the class entered the cafeteria, a scowling Professor Yosemite Sam was there to greet them. Many of the students had to stifle a laugh because, despite the cold look on the teacher's mustached face, the flowery apron he wore killed the dark mood he was trying to convey. If any outlaw ever saw Yosemite Sam as he was now, they would roll six miles in their grave.

Hamton meanwhile, was feeling more excited by the moment as he glanced around the cafeteria. The many lunch tables had all been pushed against the walls and were covered with bowls, mixing spoons, cake pans, frosting bags, and measuring cups. One table was devoted to holding ingredients, another to decorations, and atop of one, with a "Proceed with Extreme Caution" sign next to it, there was a huge stack of TNT, fireworks, gunpowder barrels, and other forms of explosives.

Holding his hand to the side of his mouth, Buster whispered to an unseen person (a.k.a. the reader), "Remember, don't _ever_ bring explosives into a non-cartoon school."

"Pipe down, ya long-eared, blue-blabbin' rabbit!" scolded Yosemite Sam. "You wanna start takin' to thin air, go and talk to the guidance counselor!"

Clearing his throat, Yosemite Sam straightened his large cowboy hat and said, "All right, listen up, y'all. We only got two hours to bake so we gotta get down to business snap-dattin' tootin'! First, we need to partner up, and this time, _I'm_ decidin! Last time, none of ya got anythin' done except flappin' your gums!"

And so, at the mercy of the angry, two-foot tall cowboy, everyone was partnered off.

To Buster's dismay, he got teamed with Elmyra, who immediately starting hugging and squeezing Buster until he looked bluer than normal. Then Plucky and Shirley were partnered together; Shirley looked positively thrilled, Plucky less so. Next were Furrball and Dizzy, then Calamity and Little Beeper (talk about awkward, eh?), then Mary Melody and Gogo. Only four students were left.

"Babs," said Yosemite Sam, "you're with Monty."

Somewhere in the room, a vinyl record let off an ear-shattering scratch.

"WHAT?" bellowed Monty. "Heck no! I ain't working with that flea-bitten rabbit!"

"Same here!" Babs yelled, glaring at Monty with total dislike. "I'd rather work with a rabid dog who eats children!"

"Oh, yeah?" Monty pressed his enraged face into Babs' seething one. "I'd rather work with the dirt under your fat rabbit feet! At least it would make the cake taste better than any muck _you'd_ ever dish out!"

" _Oh, yeah_?" Babs retorted, her fists clenched. " _You_ couldn't open an oven without someone showing you how! No wonder you take your butler wherever you go!" She pointed a firm finger towards Grovely, standing and watching the ongoing feud with indifference.

"At least I can _afford_ a butler who blends in with the background! You don't see me living in any mangy hole like a carrot-eating rat!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" shouted Yosemite Sam, now red in the face. "One more nasty word and I'll flunk both of ya! You two are partners and that's that!" Breathing heavily, he turned to the only two remaining students. "Hamton, you're with Fifi! No complaints!"

Hamton's stomach gave a funny turn. All the air in the room seemed to become warmer as elation flowed through his veins, even more so when he saw Fifi smiling at him; she clearly had no complaints being his partner. As for Hamton being hers . . . as if!

"You all know the drill!" said Professor Sam. "Careful around the ovens and stoves, clean up your spots after you're done, and for the love Cactus Kate, keep the matches _away_ from the explosives until we grade the cakes! Now _get-a going_!"

The whole class obeyed and made their way to the main sinks to wash their hands. Afterwards, Hamton grabbed a plain white apron from off the pile, flung it over his head and tied it around his overalls. Fifi, standing beside him, hummed lightly as she tied her apron around her curvy figure. Hamton watched as she did so, fighting the mad impulse to blush: Fifi looked _very_ good with an apron.

"Ready, Hamton?" she asked sweetly.

"Y-Yes," he said, his head still feeling fuzzy.

 _Focus_ , he thought fiercely. _This is no time to be awestruck. Just do the assignment with her and enjoy it_.

Hamton pulled out the cake recipe that he copied from his cookbook. Clearing his throat while feeling slightly nervous, he held up the recipe for Fifi to see. "I was thinking we could try a chocolate cake, like this. What do you think, Fifi?"

She took the recipe and looked it over. Hamton swallowed, awaiting her response.

"Ooo la la!" Fifi declared. "Hamton, zis looks beautiful! I had ze same idea. Look," and she showed Hamton the recipe she picked out. It too was a chocolate cake, but in place of strawberries, this one had floral decorations made from different colored frosting. Hamton found it equally, if not more, appetizing.

"Looks fantastic," he said, feeling his anxiety drift away. "So, a chocolate cake sounds good to you?"

"Oui," said Fifi. "How about we combine ze designs?"

"Combine them?"

"Oui. We can decorate ze outside with ze white lace from your cake, and, if it sounds good to you, we can add a few frosting flowers from mine. I think zat would look superb, non?"

"Yeah, sounds great!" said Hamton, the idea increasing his eagerness. But just then, something occurred to him. . . "Umm . . . Fifi? What do you think we should use for an explosive?"

Fifi's sweet smile was replaced with a quizzical look. "Hmm . . . good question."

Hamton took the chance to ponder as well. Now that he realized it, he never thought of what he might use to make the cake explode; he had been too busy trying to raise money. But now that the question presented itself, he found it to be a huge oversight. This _was_ Exploding Cakes class after all.

"How about zis, Hamton?" said Fifi. "We do as we planned and decorate ze cake with ze white lace on ze side and ze flowers around ze base. Zen, at ze cake's top, we include one last large flower set with a firecracker."

Hamton's mind, which had fallen short of finding any good ideas, took the suggestion as it formed in his imagination. "That's sounds like it'll be all right. It's something, if nothing else."

"I agree," said Fifi. "It should be enough to give us a good grade. If we are lucky, zere may even still be enough of ze cake left to taste, depending on ze strength of ze firecracker."

" _And_ granted the cake doesn't taste like gunpowder afterwards," Hamton added.

His cheeks went hot as Fifi gave a light giggle. "True, true. Well, shall we, how you say, get started?"

Feeling bold, Hamton gave an iconic little bow. "After you, mademoiselle."

Fifi giggled again, and Hamton's blush fully emerged as they both set out to get their ingredients.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. Let the baking begin!**


	11. Cakes and Cruelty PART II

**DISCLAIMER:** **I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 _Cakes and Cruelty_

 _PART II_

After preheating one of the many ovens, Hamton and Fifi both set out to work in different places: Hamton at a nearby counter and Fifi at the stove.

Hamton, having made several cakes in the past, knew most of the measurements by heart and was quick in portioning the proper amount of flour, sugar, salt, brown sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and cocoa powder for each of the cake's two layers.

Fifi, meanwhile, gripped the handles of a double-boiler and took charge in melting the cake's primary ingredient on the stovetop. As the bittersweet-chocolate softened, she quickly and easily prepared the wet ingredients, which included the eggs, canola oil, vanilla extract, and buttermilk. With everything set, she returned to melting the chocolate, smiling as she stirred it with a wooden spoon.

Hamton came over with the brown sugar so he could add it to the eggs. As he whisked, he watched as Fifi hummed and stirred. She looked totally at ease, as though this came as naturally to her as breathing. The rich, hot scent of chocolate was strong now. When she took the pot off the stove and showed it to him, Hamton thought he might melt too; the chocolate inside was so shiny he could see his reflection.

"Milk chocolate with just a teeny bit of dark," Fifi explained. "Très délicieux (very delicious), non?"

"MM-Hmm," Hamton replied, the chocolate filling him up like drink.

With the chocolate all finished, Hamton and Fifi returned to the counter and started mixing their ingredients, taking a batch apiece. One hand gripping the bowl and the other whisking the batter, Hamton took this chance to glance around the cafeteria.

Nearby, Plucky was having an argument with Shirley, who was disputing certain ingredients being added to their mix. Apparently she thought some were too fattening and insisted on adding alternative ingredients like soy milk and tofu egg yolk.

Furrball was spending less time mixing and more time trying to keep Dizzy Devil from eating everything (including the bowl, mixing spoon, and half the countertop).

Calamity and Little Beeper seemed to be doing fine, although Hamton could see a look of hunger in Calamity's eyes that were less for the cake and more for his partner.

As far as Hamton could tell, Mary Melody and Gogo were doing all right, but Gogo, for some reason, started pounding his cake batter with a hammer. Mary, who was watching this, had her hand pressed to her face in embarrassment as bits of batter flew around them.

Buster looked downright dreary. He whisked his batter while glancing uncomfortably over his shoulder like a man expecting an attack. Elmyra stood from behind, staring at Buster as though he was an irresistible plush toy just dying to be hugged. Hamton could hear Elmyra singing as she stirred her batter. Listening closely, he made out the lyrics:

 _Funny, Funny, Bunny-Wunny_

 _You make me laugh, and smile, and sigh._

 _But if you ever try to leave me,_

 _I'll hug you tight and right until you die._

Buster started mixing more hectically, clearly wanting nothing more than to be five hundred miles from here.

But Buster's nervousness, Elmyra's humming, and everything else came to an abrupt halt at the sound of a very loud CLANG!

Hamton, Fifi, and everyone else turned to the source in surprise.

A large bowl full of batter had fallen to the floor and most of its goopy contents now lay at Babs' large feet. She was glaring at Monty, who looked both frustrated and smug.

"Way to put us behind, Rabbit!" he said mildly so as not to provoke Professor Sam, who was glaring in their direction.

Just as quietly, but with venom dripping in every syllable, Babs spoke, "You did that on purpose!"

"Prove it!" Monty retorted through his teeth.

There was a moment of silence so total that Hamton couldn't move. Everyone was expecting Babs or Monty to attack each other, but, to Hamton's relief, Babs chose to let go of this "unfortunate" setback. Stomping with anger, her fists tight and knuckles going white, Babs picked up the bowl and slammed it back onto the counter.

With the cake batter ready, Hamton and Fifi placed their round cake pans into the fully heated oven and set a timer. Knowing they both had a few spare minutes, they walked back to the counter to clean up any traces of flour and batter. As for the spoon used to mix the chocolate, Fifi kindly gave it to Hamton to lick dry. With a washrag in one hand wiping down the counter, Hamton brought the spoon into his mouth . . . and froze.

The taste was incredible. Never in Hamton's life had he experienced chocolate this rich and perfect.

But before Hamton could ask Fifi about it, Plucky and Shirley walked over. Plucky's face was spattered with flour. He blew a puff of it out from his bill, looking annoyed.

"Uh . . . having fun?" asked Hamton, setting the spoon back on the counter.

Just as Plucky opened his mouth to speak, Shirley happily answered for him. "Oh, yeah. Me and Plucky are, like, trying a new recipe of mine: Aura-Cleansing Tofu Cake with raspberry syrup."

"The syrup was _my_ idea," said Plucky, and there was not a trace of eagerness in his voice.

At first, Hamton didn't speak, not sure how to answer. He had never tried tofu cake and couldn't honestly say he thought it tasty or off-putting, so instead, he simply responded, "Sounds . . . interesting."

"Yeah?" Plucky asked skeptically. "Guess what the flour's made of."

"Oh, Plucky, come on," Shirley assured him. "Insect flour is very healthy. Like, just because it's a cake doesn't mean it can't be good for you."

"I'm just thankful we're gonna blow it up." He turned back to Hamton and Fifi. "Shirley's going to use her powers to make it explode."

"Oooo, very creative!" said Fifi.

"And you guys?" asked Plucky. "What are you two making?"

Fifi waved her hand modestly and said, "Oh, just a chocolate cake with a firecracker."

At hearing the word 'chocolate', Plucky's dour mood brightened considerably. "Well, you can't go wrong with that, and definitely not with chocolate."

From across the room, Hamton saw Buster and Elmyra place their cake pans into the oven. No sooner had the oven door closed, Buster zoomed over to them, leaving Elmyra in the dust (literally).

"I never, ever thought baking could be so stressful," said Buster, glancing anxiously over his shoulder. "She moves every time I do; won't let me go outside two feet of her."

"Well, that's Elmyra for you," said Hamton with a shrug. "She's fixated on making us her pets, regardless of how many times she has to try and fail."

"Yeah, well, I think I'd _rather_ take being chased over this," said Buster, running his gloved hand down the side of his white cheek. "Did any of you hear what she was singing?"

"Yeah, we did" said Shirley with sympathy. "Like, a total nerve scratcher. I totally don't blame your aura for being shaky."

Plucky, perhaps trying to lighten Buster's mood, asked, "What explosive are you using?"

Buster replied, "Eh, we're going with a time bomb, which Elmyra plans on setting off in her own special way."

"Like what?" asked Hamton.

"You'll see," and to this, Buster grinned deviously.

At that moment, Babs walked over to them. Her apron was splotched with batter and her hands were so covered in flour that she looked like she was wearing white gloves.

"I . . . _hate_ . . . Monty!" she breathed, her glare sending chills down Hamton's spine.

"Babsy, Babsy, calm down," Buster said gently, holding up his hands and easing next to his girlfriend.

But Babs shook him off.

" _You_ try being Monty's partner!" she shot at him, keeping her voice to a violent whisper. "What do _you_ have to complain about? Elmyra's a privilege compared to him! That greedy slime-ball dictator has done nothing but bark instructions as I did all the work! He knocked over that bowl on purpose, I just know it! And I swear," she added, shaking with rage, "if I hear him laugh _one_ more time, I'm gonna jam a firework up his nose!"

Buster bravely placed his hands on her shoulders and tried to steady her shaking. "Babs, please, just breathe," he said evenly. "This is only 'til the end of class. Just make your cake, then let it blow up in Monty's face. Don't let him poison your mood. We still got our date tonight. Remember, Babsy?"

At these words, Babs' anger seemed to hit a wall and she looked back at Buster with not a trace of anger. Letting out one quiet breath, she gave him an affectionate nod.

"Sorry," she said to them all meekly. "Sorry I shouted. Of all the people here, I shouldn't do that to you guys." Taking Buster's hand in her own, she let out a sigh. "I guess having a time limit just gets to you."

"And with a partner like Monty," said Shirley with her arms crossed, "like, no-brainer."

"So," said Babs, her tone much more friendly. "How's it going with your guys' cakes?"

"Shirley's trying to make ours into a literal tasting sponge-cake," said Plucky.

"Oh, quit it, Plucky!" said Shirley crossly. "You've never tried tofu cake before, so give it a chance! Prejudice is so beyond you!"

"And you two?" Babs asked to Fifi and Hamton.

"Oh, simply magnifique!" Fifi exclaimed. "Hamton found ze most _beautiful_ recipe and knows ze ingredients like a professional."

Hamton's face went warm very fast, his lips forming a bashful smile. Buster and Babs smirked in his direction.

"Well, _you_ did great with the chocolate, Fifi," Hamton said, his face still burning. "Seriously, I practically melted when I licked the spoon."

"Oh, it is nothing," said Fifi, looking rather pleased with herself. "I used to make a lot of zhese treats with my mother. She taught me everything she knew about chocolate when I was a little girl. Oh, and speaking of chocolate, Hamton, we better prepare ze frosting."

"Right," he said. "Well, guys, I hope your cakes turn out all right."

Babs grimaced. "Thanks, Hamton, but I wouldn't put too much hope on me and Monty's."

Dismally, she walked back towards the counter where Monty stood, counting a large wad of money as though he had nothing better to do with his time.

* * *

Even though there was store-bought frosting available with the other ingredients, Fifi was determined to try and make everything from scratch, and since they had time while their cake baked, it seemed like an okay idea. Hamton had never made homemade frosting before, and so it was a relief that Fifi announced she would take care of it as he watched the cake.

Hamton bent down and stared through the oven's glass window at the two cake pans in the blazing heat. The batter was only halfway through its required baking time and, judging by the cafeteria's wall clock, he and Fifi would only have ten minutes remaining to add the finishing touches.

In the meantime, Hamton concentrated on the oven, the heat from inside warming him like a fireplace.

The whole cafeteria was aloft with delicious smells as the cakes neared completion. A complex, tropical scent seeped out of Calamity and Little Beeper's oven; Plucky's and Shirley's smelled strange yet enticing; and Buster and Elmyra's held the aroma of overly-sweet carrots.

The other scents were less inviting. Furrball and Dizzy's cake didn't seem to have much scent (Hamton wondered vaguely if Dizzy had succeeded in eating most of the ingredients). Mary Melody and Gogo's cake smelled outright peculiar and Hamton wondered if it was even a cake baking in that oven. No scent, however, seemed as disagreeing as Babs' and Monty's. Hamton couldn't place it but he rather thought their cake smelled like the inside of a blacksmith shop. Babs was looking grouchy and surly, clearly not wanting anyone to talk to her less she explode with angry shouts. Monty, for some reason, was talking on a cellular phone and, from the looks of it, making demands.

And all the while this was happening, Professor Yosemite Sam sat down on a chair in the corner, his arms crossed, watching the students like an outlaw looking for a fight.

The instant the timer went off, Hamton pulled open the oven and removed the two cake pans, the hot metal warming his hands through the oven mitts. The chocolatey smell was heavenly; if he wasn't in such a hurry, he would've stopped to savor the moment.

"Fifi!" said Hamton, placing the pans on the counter and removing the cakes via the parchment paper. "The cakes are out."

"Good," she said while swiftly mixing a bowl of frosting. "Let zem cool for a bit, zen we shall decorate."

Doing just that, Hamton placed the two separate layers on an Acme Nearly Instant Cooling Tray (specially designed for treats that must be finished quickly).

"Hamton," said Fifi rather hurriedly, "grab ze frosting bags and fill zem up, s'il vous plait." She slid two bowls in front of Hamton: one holding a white frosting, the other a light pink.

Hamton stared down in surprise. "You made _two_ bowls of frosting?"

"Oh non, mon amie, I made three!" she said, now mixing a bowl with a dark chocolate frosting. "Hurry, Hamton! We will have to start decorating right after we stack ze cakes!"

Hamton nodded and, taking two clear plastic bags, scrapped in the white and pink frostings with a rubber spatula. His pig snout detected vanilla from the first and strawberry from the second.

"Ready!" The moment Fifi said this, Hamton and her both began spreading the chocolate icing all over the cake's first layer. When it was fully coated, they stacked the second, then applied the last of the chocolate frosting.

"Five minutes!" shouted Yosemite Sam.

The whole class kicked into high gear.

"I'll do the flowers," Hamton said quickly, feeling a little on edge.

Just as quickly, Fifi said, "Oui, and I shall add ze lace!"

Hamton passed Fifi the white frosting bag and he took up the pink. Without another word, they began to decorate, trying to keep the narrowing time out of their minds so they could concentrate.

Hamton put as many flowers as he could on both sides and the cake's top edge. He was so focused that he couldn't even glance at Fifi's work as they slowly circled around the cake.

"One minute!"

Hamton felt his brow start to moisten. He twisted and squeezed the bag, shaping the largest flower on top of the cake in its center. Only when it was finished did he realize. . . .

"Fifi, we forgot to add the firecracker!" Hamton said, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Non, non, Hamton, I have it here!" Fifi said quickly, and she held up the tiniest firecracker Hamton had ever seen. It was as thin as a match stick and almost disappeared when Fifi stuck it in the big frosted flower.

"But . . . but Fifi," said Hamton, staring at the tiny thing, confused. "How can that possibly —"

"TIMES UP!" shouted Yosemite Sam, standing up from his chair. "Put down yer tools and gather together. We have to judge these cakes and be out by 3:00."

As Yosemite Sam began pushing a square table toward the room's center, Hamton took a good, long glimpse at his and Fifi's finished work.

The cake was beautifully brown with smooth, shiny chocolate frosting. Hamton's carefully placed pink flowers stuck at the two layers between long, stretching patterns of white lace that curled its way to the top and surrounded the largest flower. Fifi's design was as pristine and detailed as though she had just finished sewing with white thread.

"What do you think, Hamton?" she asked, sounding uncertain. "Does it . . . does it look all right?"

Hamton answer was honest and simple. "Better than the book's."

Fifi smiled at him.

"Come, Monsieur Chef," and she took Hamton's hand and led him to the other students who were grouping together on the other side of the cafeteria. Hamton could feel his face going red again.

They stopped beside Buster and Babs who were holding hands. Babs still didn't look too happy. Looking over towards Monty, Hamton saw someone he hadn't noticed before in the cafeteria.

It was a fully uniformed chef, and from the looks of it, Monty was making a payment to him, handing over crisp one-hundred dollar bills.

"Babs?" said Hamton. "Who's that chef?"

"Monty called him in," she said with a snort. "He thought it'd be an advantage, having a 'real chef' come and decorate the cake."

"Which cake is yours?" asked Fifi.

But before Babs could answer, Yosemite Sam's voice rang through the cafeteria. "All right, quiet now, I say, QUIET!"

Everyone hushed up. The only sounds were the footsteps of the chef walking out the door, counting his money.

"All right," said Yosemite Sam. "Plucky, Shirley, you two first."

Plucky and Shirley both stepped forward and placed their cake onto the table in front of Professor Sam.

The cake had two layers like Hamton's and Fifi's, but it was yellow with no frosting and drizzled with a bright pink syrup. The smell of raspberries was the only scent Hamton could detect.

"Aura Cleansing Tofu Sponge Cake with a light raspberry topping," said Shirley, quite proud. Plucky gave a much smaller smile.

Professor Sam leaned forward and eyed the cake beadily, his index finger resting under his bottom lip. "Hmm... Appearance looks fine, smells . . . uh . . . can't smell anything, actually. Tofu, you say?"

"Like, yeah," said Shirley, confidence in every part of her face.

Yosemite Sam stuck out his finger, gave the cake a quick swipe and popped his finger into his mouth. He chewed, then smacked his lips.

"'Sponge cake' is right," he said with annoyance. "This here tastes like a dang loofa!"

Off to the side, Monty let out a cruel laugh. Shirley, now looking put out, bowed her head a little. Plucky nudged closer to her and patted her back.

"Now," said Prof. Sam, his arms crossed. "How's it explode?"

Plucky gave a devious smirk and turned to Shirley. She smirked too and winked at him. She closed her eyes and concentrated. There was silence at first. And then, without warning, the sponge cake started to shake. Two seconds later — BAM! Pieces flew everywhere, spattering the walls, floor, ceiling, but amazingly didn't touch the other cakes.

Hamton got sprayed with only a tiny bit. Tasting it, he agreed with Professor Sam that it lacked much flavor, but it certainly wasn't terrible. Fifi, Buster, and Babs, who received a few splotches on their aprons, seemed to agree; Monty, however, looked livid — he got hit in the face with a full splat. Hamton vaguely wondered if Shirley had done that on purpose. . . .

Wiping the cake splatter off his face, Yosemite Sam gave a low whistle and _almost_ smirked. "Well now, that there's creativity! No TNT or anythin'. Nice finish, you two. B plus."

Plucky and Shirley grinned, and the class (minus Monty) clapped for the two.

"Dizzy, do your thing!" ordered Professor Sam.

"Oh, boy!" exclaimed the purple Tasmanian devil. "Me like this part!"

Dizzy turned on the spot and began to spin so quickly that he hummed like a drill. He was now a tiny, violet cyclone, whirling around the room where Plucky and Shirley's cake had hit. In a matter of seconds, the place was left sparkling clean, not a crumb or drop of raspberry syrup left in sight. Dizzy then returned to the group of students and spun past everyone. There was a blur of purple, a strange sensation of wind and moisture, and then Dizzy landed back on his feet.

Looking down, Hamton saw that his and everyone else's aprons were now spotless. How Dizzy did such a thorough job, Hamton couldn't imagine.

"All right, next up, Calamity and Little Beeper," said Yosemite Sam.

The rest of the class was graded in the same manner as the first cake: first by appearance, then by smell, then taste, and finally the explosion with Dizzy on the cleanup.

Calamity and Little Beeper had put together a tropical confetti cake which was bright in color and, when exploded, released _actual_ confetti. Yosemite Sam gave the boys a B due to the fact that the cake — like most of Calamity's creations — was half-baked.

After coughing up a few bits of confetti, Dizzy Devil placed his and Furrball's cake on the table. Hamton's eyebrows rose at the sight of it. It was bitten clean in half, with large, clear teeth marks going down the side. Furrball was shaking his head in disappointment; Dizzy was patting his belly.

"Cake taste good," Dizzy said to Professor Sam.

"I'll take your word for it," grumbled the teacher, refusing to the touch the cake. "Now, what about the kablooie?"

Furrball stepped forward and pulled out a match. He turned the cake around on its palette and everyone saw what had not been visible at first: a bottle rocket . . . pointing right in the class's direction!

Furrball struck the match and lit the fuse. There was a fizzing hiss . . . and then, with a BANG, the rocket pelleted forward, shooting behind a fountain of sparks, carrying the cake with it.

Hamton and the others jumped away in alarm, leaving only Dizzy at the front. The Tasmanian devil opened his gaping mouth and the cake shot straight into it. Dizzy swallowed it in one gulp.

A brief moment of stunned silenced passed. . . .

Then there came a muffled BOOM and Dizzy's body expanded like a furry beach ball. Letting out a loud belch, he deflated back to his normal size, smoke leaking out from his ears and mouth.

"Wo0000w," he said, his mismatched eyes all wonky. "Very well done."

"Indeed," said Professor Sam, sounding impressed. "Not much to look at, but a powerful ending. C plus, boys."

Next came Mary Melody and Gogo. If Hamton had thought Furrball's and Dizzy's cake was unusual, he reconsidered his definition of 'strange' when he saw the cake Gogo placed on the table. It was large, gray. . . and in the shape of a claw hammer.

"What in tarnation do you call _this_?" asked Yosemite Sam.

"Pound cake," said Gogo simply.

The whole class blinked; Hamton could've sworn he heard a rimshot.

Professor Sam, looking as baffled as everyone else, stuck his finger into the cake and tasted it. "Hmm . . . Pound cake is right," he said. "Now how does it —"

But his question was answered when the cake inexplicably flew into the air and slammed back down onto the table. It splattered, leaving bits of frosting smeared all over. Then, standing where the cake had hit the table was a new, rather normal-looking cake . . . in the shape of a skillet.

"Now it's a pancake," said Mary, smiling awkwardly.

Yosemite Sam blinked and looked from Mary, to the cake, and back to Mary and Gogo. He let out a soft chuckle — emphasis on the word 'soft'. "Heh — clever. All right. Tastes fine and did its job. B minus."

Gogo gave Mary's arm a light punch. "Told you I knew what I was doing," he said with a smirk.

"All right," said Yosemite Sam. "Buster, Elmyra, you two next."

Buster walked off, Elmyra stalking him from behind. What Buster was holding when he came back made Hamton gawk.

"What the..." he heard Babs say quietly.

On the table, Buster placed a cake in the honest-to-goodness shape of a rabbit . . . a blue rabbit, with a red shirt, exactly like the one Buster was wearing under his apron. Everything from the long blue ears to the white tail was identical — size and height — to Buster Bunny.

"Rabbits?" growled Professor Sam. "I hates rabbits!" he pounded the table with his fist.

"Yeah, we know," said Buster dryly.

"Isn't he the cutest, tasty thing you ever did see, Professor Sammy?" asked Elmyra, her hands folded while adoring the cake with a sappy look. "Don't you just want to sink your teeth into him?"

"Don't call me Sammy!" shouted Yosemite Sam, slamming his fist down on the table again. With a grouchy face, he swiped his finger across the cake-rabbit's leg like a knife and tasted the bit on his finger.

"Hmph!" he said, looking annoyed. "Figures. Carrot cake. But . . ." he chewed and swallowed, "tasty, I'll give you two that."

At that moment, the leg that Yosemite Sam swiped with his finger crumpled and fell forward. Elmyra caught the cake.

"Got you, bunny-wunny," she said, and she started to squeeze it in a bone crushing hug. And then, out of nowhere it seemed, Hamton and the rest of the class heard ticking.

"Huh? What's that sound?" asked Professor Sam, looking here and there.

"The kablooie," answered Buster, who stepped back to a safe distance.

Elmyra continued to hug the cake, which hadn't collapsed under her vise-like embrace, but was starting to show strain. The cake-Buster's eyes were bulging as though they might pop at any moment, and then, just as the cake looked like it couldn't take anymore, it exploded with a loud BANG.

Cake chunks flew everywhere. Hamton nearly tripped over his own feet when a piece of cake flew straight into his apron.

Elmyra's face was darkened with soot and her skirt was tattered at the ends. She was giggling and crossed-eyed, wobbling as though she were seconds from falling over. "Woooo . . .," she said, quite dizzy. "Maybe I squeezed too hard. . . ." She continued to giggle while waving her arms, trying to maintain balance.

But then Hamton heard someone else laugh. Wiping the cake from his ears, it grew more hearty. If he did not see it, he would not have believed it.

Professor Yosemite Sam, the grouchiest teacher in the entire school, was laughing and pounding his fists on the table with uncontrolled glee.

"That..." he said, straining on his laughter, "that was . . . bloody excellent! A rabbit exploding! I've been trying for years and never seen it done." Wiping an actual tear out of his eye, Yosemite Sam straightened up and said, smiling proud, "A minus."

"A minus?" said Buster, sounding shocked. "But we just made you laugh!"

"Yes," said Professor Sam, "but animal-choker here," he pointed his thumb at Elmyra, "called me 'Sammy', and for that, you get the minus, and be thankful you get that much!"

Buster chose not to complain (a wise move). Dragging Elmyra back to the group, he handed her a wet dishrag to help clean the soot off her face. As miserable as Buster had looked working with Elmyra, it seemed the good grade they received had changed his mood for the better. He even patted Elmyra on the back in congratulations.

Dizzy spun around the room yet again and stopped beside the others to lick his face clean of cake.

Looking up at the now sparkling clean clock, Professor Sam saw there were only five minutes left until 3:00.

"Okay, we all gotta get a move on! Hamton, Fifi! Bring up your cake!"

Hamton turned to Fifi and she to him. They both nodded and walked to their table. Amazingly, after five explosions, the cake still looked perfect.

Gripping the stand that held the two-layer treat, Hamton whispered, "Ready?"

"Oui," Fifi whispered back.

Together they carefully carried the cake to the table and set it down gently. Their classmates, they noticed, looked impressed by the finished design, all except for Monty — no surprise there.

After a moment's silence, Hamton looked again at Fifi, who seemed to be mimicking his actions and feelings, wondering how their cake would hold to Yosemite Sam's rough judgement.

And so they watched and waited. . . .

The miniature cowboy stared at the cake, wide-eyed and in awe, wondering, perhaps, what exactly it was he was seeing.

And finally he spoke. . .

"It looks amazing," he said, sounding speechless. "Reminds me of my mother's gardens. She loved plantin' mounds of flowers, guarding 'em with white wire fences. . . ." He seemed to say this more to himself than to the students; his face held the expression of someone lost in a fabulous daydream.

With more gentleness than he had shown to all the other cakes, Yosemite Sam picked off a piece — one with a frosting flower — and ate it. He chewed slowly, then swallowed.

His face froze as though he had been shot through the heart. He seemed utterly taken aback.

"Uh . . . Professor Sam?" Hamton asked cautiously.

Fifi stepped forward and gave her teacher's shoulder a soft pat.

"Monsieur?" she asked delicately.

A second later, she leapt back in surprise.

As though waking from a dream, Professor Sam let out a loud, "Ya-HOO! Now _that_ there's a chocolate cake! Perfect amount of everything. The strawberry and vanilla frosting is mixed wonderfully. And the chocolate . . . wooooo-wee! Which of you made it?"

Fifi raised her hand.

"You, Missy," said Yosemite Sam, "know your chocolate! Just beautiful! And for that," he did something he hardly ever did, "I take my hat off to you."

Hamton could hardly believe that something as simple as a cake could bring about such a change in a bad-tempered man. Looking at Fifi, he beamed with her at how good they were doing so far.

"Yeah, yeah, great," came a nasty voice from the crowd. It was Montana Max. "But how's it explode?" He cut across Hamton with a light shove and stared at the cake. "As far as I can see, I don't see any way this mound of manure can blow up."

Feeling angry at this insult, Hamton actually thought of telling Monty off, but Fifi stepped forward and pointed at the large flower atop the cake.

"It is right here, Monsieur of Greed."

Monty gazed down at the tiny firecracker sticking out of the large flower and let out a cruel laugh.

"HA! That pathetic little thing? Looks more like a midget's birthday candle!"

To Hamton's curiosity, Fifi smiled deviously. "Zen," she said, pulling out a match, "how about _you_ light it, voudriez-vous?"

Monty raised an eyebrow and slowly took the match. Fifi moved quickly back to Hamton, grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him with her.

As they walked passed their friends, Fifi whispered, "Take cover, everyone!"

Not knowing what to expect, everyone followed Fifi's instruction. She and Hamton took shelter behind a table. Fifi was still holding Hamton's wrist, but was staring too eagerly and deviously at Monty to notice how much Hamton was blushing.

In the meantime, Hamton looked over in Monty's direction. What about that little firecracker did Fifi know that nobody else did?

"Well, Monty," said Professor Sam, his arms crossed, "let's get this show on the road. Hurry up and light the thing!"

Striking the match, Monty let off a cruel chortle as he brought the flame closer to the firecracker's fuse. "Ha! Leave it to a girl to pick out weak explosives. Seriously, how can such a wimpy —"

 _ **BOOM**_!

The entire room shook. Tables and chairs rattled on the floor, tools from the kitchen clanked and clattered, even the window glass squeaked in their frames.

His pig ears ringing, Hamton opened his eyes.

Nearly every inch of the cafeteria was covered in brown spots. If Hamton hadn't been more startled, he might have complained about the huge mess.

He turned to Fifi, who was rubbing her ear with the palm of her purple-furred hand. Her face was covered in dark brown spots. Hamton's face must've got covered too, because once Fifi laid eyes on him, she started to giggle. As his hearing came back, Hamton blushed. Even if she was laughing at him, Hamton couldn't help but adore Fifi's giggles.

"Sorry," he said bashfully.

"Non, non," said Fifi, shaking her head with laughter. "I am not laughing at you, Hamton. I'm laughing at everything — myself too." Running a finger down her white furry cheeks, she said, "I am quite messy, as well.

"Oh, it's not that bad," said Hamton, who would admire Fifi's appearance no matter what she was covered in.

But compared to everyone else in room, Monty was easily the worse for wear. His hair was sticking up on all ends, his clothes were singed, and his blackened face was frozen in complete bewilderment. He was stock-still, like a confused and burnt statue.

"What kind of firecracker was that, Fifi?" asked Hamton.

"An Acme Mini Jumbo Boom," answered Fifi. "Safety version."

This last part made sense. Besides the blotches of chocolate cake smattering every available surface, the cafeteria was still in pristine shape. No windows were broken, no lights shattered, even the table on which the cake exploded was in one piece — though with an admittedly large burn mark.

Proud and amazed at the effect their cake had, Hamton and Fifi turned at hearing a sudden cough. Their hearts and smiles dropped.

Professor Sam had been blown back by the force of the explosion and was sticking to the cafeteria wall, his arms and legs outstretched, his face matching closely to Monty's.

His eyes shifted downward, and upon looking at the floor, gravity took hold and Yosemite Sam fell face-forward onto the ground. But, as a Toon long-experienced at being on the receiving end of an explosion, it took Sam no time to recover. He stood up, shoved his cowboy hat back onto his head and walked over to Hamton and Fifi, a steely look in his eye. Then he stopped.

Hamton gulped.

Fifi grimaced.

Then, in the dead silence as the rest of the class watched on, Yosemite Sam delivered the grade.

"A plus," he said, without a trace of aggression. "Beautiful form, rich smell, wonderful taste, and that explosion. . . ." He gave a happy whistle. "I didn't think anyone would be clever enough to find the Jumbo Boom, let alone place it in such a way that doesn't offset the cake. I don't often say this in any shape, size, or situation, but . . ." he sighed, "good job, you two. _Very_ good job."

Hamton stood there, shocked by the comment. The rest of the room had fallen quiet; everyone seemed to have stopped breathing by the effect of Yosemite Sam's words.

Fifi broke the silence first. She gave a squeal of happiness and, to Hamton's complete surprise, embraced him from behind. He was so startled and so happy, he forgot to blush. A passing grade was _nothing_ compared to this: Fifi's arms around him . . . her soft, beautiful arms under his chin.

The class clapped for the two, but Hamton hardly heard it, ever after Fifi let go of him.

"MMM!" said Mary Melody with delight, tasting some chocolate on her finger. "You guys, this is delicious! You two should do this more often!"

Everyone around them agreed, tasting some part of the cake that struck them.

"Mmm!" said Elmyra, picking a piece of cake out of her red hair and eating it. "You two should've made a chocolate bunny! That would've been perfect."

"No," said Babs, whose smile was widest of all, her eyes fixed on Monty, who was burnt and smoking with half-melted shoes. " _Nothing_ could be more perfect than this."

"All right, all right!" came Professor Sam's gruff voice. "Dizzy, hurry up and clean the place so we can grade the last cake and get outta here!"

Dizzy happily did so. Within ten seconds, the cafeteria and everyone in it was spotless again.

"Mmm-mmm, good cake, pig and skunk made!" he said, patting his belly.

"HEY!" shouted Montana Max, whose face was still black with soot. "You forgot me, you rabid garbage disposal!"

Dizzy stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Burnt cheapskate no taste good."

"Babs!" shouted Yosemite Sam. "You and Monty show your cake! Hurry up! Time's a wastin!"

"I'll do it!" called Monty abruptly, and he ran to push the cake into view.

Everyone's mouths fell open, and strangely, Hamton noticed, so did Babs'.

The cake Monty carefully (very carefully) set on the table had not two layers, but four giant ones. It was glistening with diamonds set in the edges lined with frosting. Its lace was gold and sparkly, and its aroma was sweet as sugar could be.

"Well, uh . . ." said Yosemite Sam, his eyes wide, looking up at the dessert, "it's certainly got appearance down pat. But how —?

"Good question!"

It was Babs who shouted. She looked outraged as she stomped towards the cake. She faced Monty like a lawyer giving an accusation.

"Would you mind telling everyone how you baked a cake like this, Monty? I certainly don't remember it looking like this, and I should know, seeing as I did ninety-nine percent of the work!"

"Shut up, Rabbit!" he whispered through clenched buckteeth. Calming himself with a great deal of strain, Monty looked back to Yosemite Sam. "Go on, have a taste."

But before Prof. Sam could, Babs stepped in. "No! This isn't our cake!"

"Shut up, ya pink rat!" Monty shouted viciously.

"Explain how it looks like this!" said Babs with as much aggression. "Explain that chef you called in at the last minute!"

"Hmm . . . Yes. . ." said Professor Sam suspiciously, his arms crossed. "Why _was_ he here, Monty?"

Hamton saw Monty look, for a fleeting instant, unhinged, as though he had just been caught in covering up something embarrassing.

"Oh, uh . . ." Monty stuttered, smiling sheepishly, "I just, you know, asked for tips on how to put the finishing touches on the cake. And so what?" he asked. "I have the money, and you never said we couldn't use outside help, so what's the problem?"

"This is!" shouted Babs.

She slammed her pink fist down hard onto the table.

The cake gave a slight tremble and the sparkling white frosting began to fall away.

At once, Hamton caught a whiff of that same blacksmith smell from earlier and, from the sounds of it, so did the rest of the class.

"Sacré bleu!" cried Fifi, pressing a hand over her nose. "What on Earth —"

But 'What on Earth' it was became apart before everyone's astonished, grossed-out faces.

Lying on the table, where the bright, sparkling four-layered cake had stood, was something that looked like it had come straight out of a cast-iron furnace. It was smoking pitch black, reeked of burnt scrap metal, and looked so dense that Hamton doubted anyone, even Dizzy, could eat it.

The only thing more surprising was that Babs didn't look the slightest bit upset. Hamton certainly would, if _he_ had ever put together such a disaster.

"How the heck did you two manage _this_ lump o' tar?" asked Yosemite Sam.

Furious, Babs burst into explanation. "After Monty 'accidentally' knocked over our batter," Babs quoted the word with her fingers and shot Monty a venomous look, "we fell behind and weren't going to have enough time to bake the cake _I_ pulled together. So, thinking it would speed things up, Monty turned the oven's heat onto 'Quick Finish' without pressing the 'Montage Button' first. Then he called in a pastry chef and paid him to whip up something fast and fancy to literally cover up the disaster that _he_ made."

"I see," said Professor Sam, glowering. "Well, given the state of _this_ ," he pointed to the burning lump of cake, "and from what you told me, I don't think you two will object with me giving you both D's."

"Nope," said Babs indifferently. "Not at all."

Given all that she described, Hamton would've felt sorry for Babs, but, as she turned to look back at the students, he saw she was quite content, even happy. Monty, however, was beyond furious, and went red in the face so fast that it was a real surprise _he_ didn't explode.

"Well," said Professor Sam, "one minute 'til 3:00. All in all, good timing. Everyone pile your aprons in the wash bin and get on out o' here. See you all next week!"

* * *

The whole school was abuzz with delight for the weekend's arrival. Most of the students rushed out of the classrooms so fast it was a wonder the doors were still on their hinges. Professor Sam's Exploding Cakes class, however, was sure to walk out quietly and steadily, or else face the fury of their short, hotheaded teacher.

Hamton left the cafeteria with Fifi at his side. The last class of the day had turned out better than Hamton could've ever hoped. Fifi had been his partner, they both received the best grade in class, and, best and most wonderful of all, Fifi had hugged him — he had felt her soft, beautiful self for five whole seconds — and that was better than a thousand chocolate cakes.

This blissful daydream, however, came to a halt when an unexpected noise erupted from the cafeteria. Hamton and Fifi turned around, and were met by a bizarre sight.

Babs had just walked out through the doors. She was laughing so hard that Buster had to support her as they moved into the hall. Plucky and Shirley were right beside them, staring with raised eyebrows as Babs continued to guffaw.

"Wow, Babs" said Plucky, "you're sure doing well for someone who just got a D."

Inhaling fast while chuckling, Babs wiped away a tear and calmed herself. "It was worth it. Seeing Monty get what was coming to him was priceless. Besides, I'd rather fail than cheat and get an A, especially with a partner like _that_."

"Like, true positive karma!" Shirley complimented, slapping Babs on the shoulder. "One day it'll do you a favor."

Babs, having finally gotten control of her laughter, turned to Hamton and Fifi. "Congrats, you two. I wish we could've saved that cake, it tasted great!"

"Yeah, like, _way_ better than tofu," Shirley admitted. Her friends looked at her in surprise. "What? I may have my own preferences, but I'm, like, totally open to other people's ideas."

"Could've fooled me," Plucky mumbled.

"I, like, heard that, Plucky," Shirley chimed. "And I _did_ listen to your idea. I just thought mine was better."

"Yeah, yeah. . ." said Plucky, though not looking too annoyed.

"Seriously, though," Buster said to Hamton and Fifi. "That cake was something amazing. I mean, getting Yosemite Sam to act like that. . . . The two of you really make quite the —"

But before Buster could finish, the doors to the cafeteria burst open, hitting the walls so hard that the stucco cracked.

Montana Max stood in the doorway. His clothes were now clean and his face was free of soot, but this was little improvement — his teeth were bared in savage fury. Shaking with inhuman rage, he stomped to the six friends as though intent on plowing through them.

Hamton saw Babs tighten her fists. She made to step forward, but Buster cut in front of her and blocked Monty's path.

"Something you need, Monty?" asked Buster. His tone wasn't exactly aggressive, but Hamton could tell that Buster wasn't about to let Monty come one step closer to Babs.

"Out of the way, you blue eyesore!" Monty shouted. "I'm gonna turn your tattle-tale girlfriend into a scarf!"

"Go ahead and try!" Babs retorted, trying to get past Buster who was blocking them both.

"I 'otta string you up by the ears, Rabbit! That D was all your fault!"

"Says the guy who charbroiled the cake right when it was nearly done!" Babs shouted back. "You're the one who should be yelled at, but you're not worth two seconds of my time! Now if you excuse us, me and Buster got places to be."

At these words, Monty's scowl suddenly transformed into a wicked grin. It did nothing to reduce the nasty feeling Hamton felt; quite the contrary, this evil leer was by far more unsettling than a murderous stare.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," Monty said with his sickening grin. "You two fleabags are going on a date, aren't ya?"

"So what?" asked Buster.

"What'cha got planned?" Monty asked. "Gonna gorge yourselves on carrots? Play dress up in each other's clothes? Roll around in the garbage? Here," Monty grabbed a nearby trashcan next to the water fountain and dropped it in front of the two rabbits, "this 'ought to be good enough for you two peasants. Maybe you'll both find some dinner in there if you're lucky."

Hamton frowned with annoyance. Of all the stupid and immature things to say.

"We're going to the movies," sneered Babs, still being held back by Buster.

"And you two?" Monty said to Plucky and Shirley, who were frowning bitterly at the rotten rich boy. "Going to beg for bread crumbs, I bet. It's all this green loser can probably afford."

Plucky scowled and made to step forward, but Shirley held up a white feathered hand to stop him.

"You know what, Monty?" said Shirley, calmly stepping forward. "Your negative aura suggests that you treat people like this because you long for something unattainable, something your money can't give you. You live in that big house with all your big money, and you have nothing real to be fond of, so you, like, try and make others feel like how you do for attention — which, in case you don't know, is totally childish and, forgive me, just plain sad."

For a split second, Monty looked taken-aback by Shirley's words, but he quickly let off a cold laugh.

"Oh really?" he asked, smirking at Shirley in that cruel face. "And _you're_ not looking for attention?"

Shirley blinked. "Like, come again?"

"Take that tofu cake you made. Don't you know cake is supposed to be eaten, or are you just too crazy to understand that everyone thinks tofu is for losers with no taste? _Although_ ," he said with emphasis, "that would explain why you chose to hook up with this green waste-of-space," he thumbed at Plucky. "You're too crazy to find anyone else who would bother wasting their time with you."

Hamton was finding it harder by the second to tolerate Monty's teasing, but his feelings were nothing as compared to Fifi's. Hamton glanced to her out of the corner of his eyes and was startled to see how angry she looked. Her teeth were bared, and her beautiful violet eyes were burning with fire.

"You've gone awfully quiet, Loon," said Monty, grinning with sick satisfaction. "What's the matter? Does it hurt to hear the truth?"

Shirley didn't say anything, but her blue eyes looked somehow colder than usual. Plucky, his stare just as icy, grabbed hold of Shirley's hand and she squeezed it.

"Ah, how sweet," said Monty nastily. "The flunk and the nutcase like each other. Why don't you two join the diseased rats," he jabbed his thumb at Buster and Babs, "then you can all get together and roll in the dirt like —"

"How DARE you!"

The burst of anger exploded like a bomb, causing Hamton and everyone to jump in shock. It had been Fifi who shouted, and before anyone could blink, she was up in front of Monty, a purple finger pointing into his startled face.

"Don't you _dare_ insult these two fine couples, you heartless, worthless dog!" she shouted.

Hamton watched in awe. He had never heard Fifi sound this angry before, and couldn't help feeling a little scared himself.

Recovering from the outburst, Monty's shock faded to anger. "And just who do you think you're talking to, you rancid, purple stink-wad?"

"Only ze most insensitive, unloving, deplorable boy I have _ever_ seen!" snapped Fifi. "You have _no_ right to criticize people and zhose they have feelings for!"

"I'll criticize anyone I want!" he retorted, his ugly, enraged face inches from biting Fifi. "I'm rich, and you peasants are wasting your lives with each other!"

"And _**you**_ ," growled Fifi, "are wasting _your_ life with all zhat wealth and _nobody_ to share it with!"

"Oh, buzz off! Like I'd ever take romantic advice from a skunk!"

Fifi glared. "You would not know love even if it slapped you!"

"And _you'll_ never know love no matter how hard you look!"

Fifi went totally silent.

"Oh, don't look surprised!" said Monty, sneering. "You've known all along! Just look around at your stupid friends!" He pointed at Buster, Babs, Plucky and Shirley, while ignoring Hamton completely. "They've been together, what, since our show began and ended? You, on the other hand, have been looking for how long, and _still_ aren't with anyone! And you wanna know why, La Fume?"

There was a pause, and then, without warning, Monty's cruel, wicked voice shouted, "It's because you _stink_! You make people gag and wretch with your very presence! No one can stand being around you 'cause your musk makes them want to run 'til their legs break! And so you hang around your friends because you get to see them happy together, knowing you'll never experience what they will!

"In fact," Monty grabbed the trash can and pushed it over, knocking its contents onto Fifi's feet, "you might as well date this garbage. It's just like you: it smells, you live in it at the Dump, and it's all any man will ever see when they look at you!"

Laughing cruelly, Monty walked off, having had his fun. "Smell you all later! That goes double for you, Skunk!"

Slowly, the hallway become devoid of sound as Monty's laughter died away. The silence left in its place was heavy and dull.

Hamton's mouth hung open with shook, as were Babs and Shirley's, their eyes wide. Buster and Plucky looked repulsed, completely lost for words.

"Fifi?" Babs said softly.

Fifi didn't answer. She wasn't moving, the garbage still laying at her feet. Only Hamton was close enough to glimpse Fifi's profile, and what he saw made his heart twinge with pain.

Fifi's face was motionless, carved with disbelief. A moment passed, and her expression crumpled to one of deepest pain. Hamton could see tears forming.

He had to say something to her . . . something, anything. But Babs beat him to it.

"Fifi?" Babs stepped closer, her voice tender with sympathy. She placed her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Shh . . . it's okay. Don't listen —"

"Excusez-moi," Fifi said in a brittle, trembling voice. "I — I shall need a minute. . ."

And unable to contain it any longer, Fifi turned from her friends and walked straight into the girl's bathroom a few steps away . . . her hand covering her face.

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. What an unfortunate end, huh? How will Hamton handle this?**


	12. The Walk Home

**Chapter Twelve**

 _The Walk Home_

 _~Dec. 5th_

"Hamton, how 'bout you come and sit down for a while?" Buster proposed. He was seated on the school floor with Plucky beside a group of lockers.

A few feet in front of them, Hamton answered, "I'm fine," rather untruthfully.

"They might be in there for a while, pal," said Plucky. "Take it from two guys with girlfriends, Hamton: when they want to, girls can talk for —"

"I'll wait," Hamton cut across, not taking his eyes off the door in front of him.

It had been over ten minutes since Babs and Shirley had gone into the girl's bathroom and Hamton was still standing in the middle of the school hallway, his throat feeling tight and his stomach churning uncomfortably.

He felt guilty for not saying anything earlier, for the way Fifi was brought to tears by Monty's cruelty. If only he hadn't been so shy, Hamton could've told Monty off, thrown his insults back into his mean, buck-toothed face. But, like his friends, Hamton had been too stunned by Monty's heartless words and was rendered speechless.

Or . . . was he just making excuses?

Hamton let out a sigh, but remained standing resolutely where he was. He had no plans of going anywhere until Fifi was out of the bathroom. Granted, he didn't know what he would say or do when the time came, but he somehow felt that just waiting for her might make Fifi feel better. Somehow. . .

The hallway was completely silent except for Buster and Plucky's shuffling legs on the floor, which hardly reached above a whisper. Hamton listened hard, trying to hear what might be going on inside the bathroom, but Babs and Shirley were apparently talking so quietly that Hamton couldn't make out a word.

His hands resting in his pants pockets, Hamton stared off to the side. The trashcan Monty had knocked over was lying nearby along with its small pile of litter. The sight of this mess sent Hamton's thoughts zooming back to Fifi in the moments before she rushed into the bathroom to cry. In the midst of this recent sad memory, Hamton's mind trekked farther back to this morning, remembering words Fifi had spoken after Monty berated her on the street.

 _'Junkyard dog, hmph! ...it will take a lot more than_ _zen_ _a simple insult to hurt moi!'_

Hamton frowned. What Monty had said a couple minutes ago was _no_ simple insult. It's one thing to call somebody a foul name, but to go as far as to say they're unlovable was two inches short of being stabbed in the heart. But . . . the damage was done, and Hamton could only pray that the words of her friends would be enough to help Fifi heal.

So Hamton and the boys waited outside in the empty hall. The minutes seemed to tick by slower than normal — perhaps due to the cartoon world Hamton and the others inhabited.

That was one of the few bad things about being a Toon, Hamton thought, remembering a lesson from Cartoon Logic. Whenever trouble arises, the characters would feel every minute of tension. Time would slow down to an unbearable degree and be followed by long moments of waiting, plagued with uncertainty — all to captivate the audience into finding out how things will be resolved.

 _The things we go through just to tell a story. . ._ , Hamton thought grimly.

Finally, after what felt like an hour — though it had really only been ten extra minutes — the bathroom door opened. Babs and Shirley stepped out, their heads bowed and expressions somber, giving the impression of two doctors about reveal some very bad news.

"How is she?" Hamton asked, half-dreading the answer.

"Well . . . she's stopped crying," said Babs bracingly. "But it'll take something more than us to help Fifi with this."

Shirley shook her head in sadness. "Like, I've never felt someone as hurt as that. I can _literally_ feel it." Her blue eyes became shiny with tears. "It's an awful feeling, being that stricken. It . . . it really makes you want to c-cry."

"Is there anything _we_ can do?" Hamton asked, motioning to Buster, Plucky, and himself.

Babs looked at him with sympathy and gently shook her head. "Just give Fifi some time, Hamton. She'll be okay."

Buster and Plucky stood up from the floor.

"That's was really low, what Monty did," said Buster bitterly. "Fifi didn't deserve that."

"Well, then how 'bout we all go do something about it?" Plucky suggested, smacking his fist into his palm, his grin devious. "Let's go and give Monty a bit of the Ol' Cartoon Get-Back, shall we? Maybe an exploding pie, or how about a rabid dog in a box? Or wait!" Plucky's face brightened with wicked excitement. "I know! How about we fill his mansion with stink bombs? It would serve Monty right for —"

"I don't think so," said Hamton abruptly.

His friends all looked at him questionably, and Hamton felt a familiar twinge in his stomach: a sinking feeling that came whenever he was the center of attention.

"Look, as nice as that idea sounds — and believe me, Plucky, I think it's great — and even though I think Monty deserves it, I think it'd only make him laugh to know that he managed to anger us. You see that all the time with bullies. And besides," Hamton turned to look at the bathroom door, "I don't think Fifi would like it if we did that. She's not the sort of person who likes her friends being angry or plotting revenge, even when it's against Montana Max. _Plus_ ," he added with particular stress, "you all got your dates to get to, and Fifi wouldn't like you putting them off just to go and get Monty back. I mean . . . that's what _I_ think, at least . . .," he finished timidly.

For a moment, Hamton really thought his friends would scold or laugh out loud in his face. He knew his friends were the type who preferred to take action over an insult rather than let it sink and die out. Even Shirley, who was the most tranquil of the pack, would get snippy with wrong-doers — _if_ they really annoy her. But as corny and cheesy as his idea sounded, it was how Hamton genuinely felt, both in regards to Fifi's feelings and with his own morals. In any case, he held his breath, ready for an outburst.

But his friends did not laugh or scorn. Instead, Hamton felt a hand pat him gently on the shoulder.

"Well said, Hamton," Buster complimented with a friendly smirk.

Hamton turned, and saw the others nod in agreement; even Plucky, who merely shrugged and said, "Meh, was just an idea."

"A really awesome idea," Babs said with a smirk. "But . . . nah. Hamton's right. We all got better things to do with our time tonight."

Walking up to the bathroom, Babs knocked gently and opened the door by a crack.

"Fifi?" Babs called out.

Nobody answered.

"Fifi? Do you want us to get you anything from the vending machines?"

"How about an Acme Spirit drink?" Shirley suggested. "I hear it's real sweet tasting. Might make you feel better."

They all waited again, listening carefully. From inside, there came a sniffle and a voice that was soft and depressed.

"Merci, but non," said Fifi. "I will be fine. You all just go on your dates. You will be late if you do not leave soon."

"Our dates can wait, Fifi," said Babs kindly. "Buster and Plucky both understand. We all want to make sure you —"

"NON!"

Hamton and the others jumped. Fifi's hoarse voice had become suddenly angry. "You four have relationships and I will _not_ see zem put on hold just because I am weepy!" Her voice then died down with a choked sob, and Hamton could tell that tears were falling as she spoke. "Please . . . just go and enjoy yourselves."

"Fifi . . ." said Babs, looking pained.

"GO!" she yelled, crying for all to hear. "You all wasted enough time! Do not waste a second more, not over someone like me!"

It was as though something cold, hollow, and blunt had materialized inside Hamton's stomach, and judging from the pained frowns on Babs and Shirley, and the sympathetic ones on Buster and Plucky, Hamton knew his friends all felt it too.

Babs let off a deep sigh.

"All right, Fifi," she said gently. "We'll head out right now. But please, try and cheer up. Remember what we talked about, okay? Me and Shirley will call you later after our dates to check on you."

Fifi gave no response, but the silence seemed to do as well as a nod.

Buster walked over and put his arm gently around Babs' shoulders.

"Get better soon, Fifi," Buster said through the door's open crack.

"See you later," Plucky called out, and with that, just as Hamton was about to say something (of what, he didn't know), the door closed before he could gather his nerves.

Feeling guilty for not saying anything yet again, Hamton looked to his four friends. "I'll stay and wait for her," he said resolutely.

Buster and Babs smiled gently and nodded.

"Get her home for us, Hamton," Babs said kindly.

Hamton nodded. "I promise."

Hand in hand, Plucky and Shirley followed after Buster and Babs. As he passed, Plucky patted Hamton on the shoulder.

"You're a good man, pal," the duck whispered.

Hamton watched as they walked away, down the hall and out the fronts doors. The doors closed with a snap and the hall went silent once again.

Willing to wait all night if that's what it took, Hamton moved to take a seat against the wall across from the bathroom. But before he could sit down, his eyes were drawn to the garbage Monty has spilt over.

Returning from his nearby locker with a pair of rubber gloves over his hands, Hamton bent over and started picking up the litter, just to give himself something to do. As he cleaned, Hamton anxiously wondered what he would say to Fifi — what he, Hamton J. Pig, could possibly do to let Fifi La Fume know that she wasn't alone — that there was someone in this world, someone in this very hallway in fact, who would give everything he had just to let her know how much she was adored.

* * *

Never had twenty minutes felt so long to Hamton as he sat waiting on the hallway floor. He spent the majority of that time straining his flabby pig ears for any sound or sign that showed life from within the girl's bathroom. But the door remained still and closed; all was quiet in Acme Loo, and the quiet was starting to get to Hamton.

Exhaling, he stood up and decided to go check on Fifi — anything to lessen the heavy weight hanging inside his chest and stomach. But just as Hamton started forward to knock on the door, he heard footsteps, not from the bathroom, but off to the side down the deserted hall.

A few seconds later, a smiling Pete Puma, the school's janitor, walked out from behind the corner. The half-witted but friendly lion was dressed in his blue jumpsuit, a broom in one hand and pulling a mop and wheeled-bucket with the other, all while humming a light, merry tune.

Upon seeing Hamton, Pete broke-off from his song.

"Oh, hey, Hamton," he said in his characteristically dopey voice. "Do you need something? If so, I'm sure a teacher could—" Pete paused midsentence and looked up in thought, as though just realizing something. "Oh, wait. Everyone else has gone home already. . . . Granny might still be here, though . . ."

"Oh, no, Pete," replied Hamton, shaking his head. "I'm just waiting for a friend of mine." He pointed to the girl's bathroom. "She's feeling really sad, though, so I've been waiting for her."

"She's sad?" said Pete, turning to the closed door. "Ah, that's too bad. Has she been in there long?"

"About forty minutes since school got out. I would go in, except . . . well. . . ."

Hamton cringed and bowed his head, feeling ashamed. It wasn't really because it was the girl's bathroom that stopped him from going in to try and comfort Fifi . . . no. The honest truth was he didn't _want_ to see Fifi looking so miserable, especially when he had no idea what he could do to make her feel better.

 _Wimp_ , Hamton thought bitterly. _Fifi would do it for you, or any of the others_!

"Yeah . . . she would . . ." Hamton muttered under his breath.

"You say something, Hamton?" asked Pete.

 _Come on, Hamton! Fifi is in there and_ you're _standing out here! Go to her. Go and talk to her. Be there for her, for Warner's sake!_

And that one thought settled it for Hamton. Forget being timid; forget not knowing what he would say or do; right now, he had to do what he could, and that was be there for the girl he admired. He couldn't just stay out here and let Fifi sob, waiting for the moment when she would come out. Besides, he promised Babs and the others he would get her home, and that's what he was going to do!

Closing his fists, he swallowed and turned to the janitor.

"Pete?" Hamton asked calmly. "Would it be okay if I go in and check on my friend?" He pointed again at the bathroom.

"Oh, sure," said Pete casually. "I have to clean the bathrooms now anyway. Just be sure to be mindful, Hamton. It's the lady's room, after all."

"Of course."

Feeling his throat go tight, Hamton walked up to the door, placed his hand on the wood, and pushed it open. Together, he and Pete walked inside.

Hamton couldn't hear Fifi crying, which he supposed was a good sign.

This being the first time he ever set foot into a girl's restroom, Hamton couldn't help but note how much cleaner it was compared to the boy's. It smelled a lot nicer, too.

Turning to the cubicles, Hamton saw that the middle one was closed. Stealing a quick peak underneath, he glimpsed Fifi's cute purple feet touching the floor.

But before Hamton could say a word, Pete stepped forward and rapped gently on the cubicle's edges.

"Uh, Hello? Sweetie?" he asked.

"Huh?" Fifi yelped in surprise.

"I'm very sorry," Pete said kindly. "I don't mean to barge in, but I kind of need to clean the bathrooms now."

Hamton heard Fifi sniffle and get to her feet. The latch on the door rattled and she stepped out. She was wiping her face with her hand.

"Oh, I am sorry, Monsieur Puma," said Fifi softly. "I did not mean to keep you. I will just let myself —."

She looked up and saw Hamton, who did his best to smile, hoping he wasn't seen as an intruder.

"Hamton?" said Fifi with surprise. "You are still here?"

"Well . . . yeah," he said, feeling awkward. "I was worried about you."

Fifi looked at him as though not knowing what to make of this. Hamton felt his cheeks go red. Even with her face damp with tears and her violet eyes slightly red and puffy, Fifi was still breathtakingly beautiful.

Finally, Pete broke the silence. "Are you feeling okay, little lady?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "I could take you to the nurse's office if you want, so you can lie down. Granny may still be there."

"Oh, no, monsieur, I am all right," Fifi nodded, her voice a little softer than normal. "I just needed some time alone. I think I am all right now. Good evening to you."

With a sniff, she turned and started for the door. Hamton followed after, giving Pete one last wave as the janitor started to sweep the floor, humming his little tune again.

"Bye, Pete. Thanks."

"No problem, Hamton," said the friendly lion. "You and your friend have a nice weekend."

Outside in the hall, Fifi took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves. It sounded much louder with the hallway being empty of students.

Wiping her hand on her face again, she turned back to Hamton.

"Are ze others still here?" she asked.

"No," said Hamton, shaking his head. "They left for their dates about twenty minutes ago, like you asked them to."

"Good," Fifi responded. "I hope zhey have a good evening."

"I'm sure they will," Hamton said plainly.

"Oui."

"Surely. . ."

Fifi looked to Hamton, then to the floor, then back to him. "So. . . "

"Yeah. . ." Hamton said slowly, looking down to his feet.

The hall seemed to go, if possible, even quieter. Hamton and Fifi's eyes kept darting to random locations and back to each other. Across from them, Pete's humming could be heard from the girl's bathroom. "Oh the merry-go-round broke down, da da da da da da."

Hamton, at a loss for words but desperately wanting to speak, pushed his shyness to the side and quickly asked, "How are you feeling, Fifi?"

She frowned a little and looked off to the side. "Oh, I have been better. . . ."

Hamton grimaced uncomfortably. What on earth could he say to her? He often felt tongue-tied enough whenever he was close to Fifi, so what could he say to make her feel better and, at the same time, not make himself look like a timid moron?

Finally, Hamton managed to muster up a few words, not knowing where they would lead him.

"Fifi, I'm really sorry," he said sincerely.

Fifi turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Sorry? Sorry for what, Hamton?"

"You know . . ." he said delicately. "For . . . for what happened with Monty. . . ."

Fifi stared at him gently. "Hamton, zat was not your fault. Monty was ze one who —"

"I know, but . . . I'm just sorry that I didn't . . . that I couldn't do anything to help."

Hamton had no idea if he was making sense or not. Most of him felt sorry because Fifi was sad, but another part — a deep, unspoken part — felt guilty because he didn't contradict Monty on his insults toward Fifi.

 _Do something!_ he thought desperately. _You're blowing it, blowing it!_

Then, remembering his promise to Babs, all while his mouth grew painfully dry, Hamton cleared his throat and said, "Uh . . . Fifi?

"Hmm?"

"I, uh . . . if you don't mind, I would . . . I'd like t-to walk you home . . . if that's okay."

These words made Hamton go instantly warm inside, but they were nothing compared to Fifi's gaze. She wasn't surprised or repulsed, but she did look curious in the exact way that always made Hamton blush.

A second later, Fifi gave a little smile and a nod. "I think I would like zat."

Hamton blinked. "Really?"

"Oui."

"Okay," Hamton said briskly. "Be right back."

Feeling as though he could've run a mile, Hamton quickly grabbed his winter coat out of his locker while Fifi went to wrap her white scarf around her neck. Then, as he began toward the exit with Fifi at his side, Hamton managed to conceal his delight with a straight face. Slowly, but very surely, his shyness started to wither and he was confident that, as timid as he was, he had done well so far while in Fifi's presence.

All he had to do now was get her home. . . .

* * *

The cold air was relief to Fifi when she and Hamton stepped outside from the school doors. Her face, still damp with tears, tingled at the winter exposure and it seemed to help freshen her mind. The biting wind was gone and the temperature had gone up slightly — not close enough to be called warm, no, but compared to how frigid this morning had been, it was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

"Still a bit nippy, eh, Fifi?" said Hamton, stuffing his bare hands into his coat pockets.

"I find it refreshing, actually" she said, taking a soft inhale through her pink nose. "Alzhough, having a fur coat does help, of course."

"Yeah, I bet it does," said Hamton with a small chuckle, now pulling on his hat. "Your fur must work as good as any winter coat."

"Well, some days I do wish to wear one, but only for ze bitterly cold days . . . such as zis morning had been," she added dully. "I thought I could make it, zhough, so I just rushed out. Thank goodness for my tail." She gave the long, fluffy appendage a light flick.

"Yeah..." said Hamton softly, gazing at Fifi's tail. "Very fluffy."

With a light smirk, she and Hamton started down the walkway, passed the tall statues of Bugs and Daffy, and went out through the white-flecked entrance arch.

The weekend effect was already taking hold in Acme Acres as people left work and headed for home, eager to spend some free time over their two days off, or, for those who didn't have that privilege, to simply rest up for the next day of work and smile on the fact that it was, after all, Friday.

Fifi, however, was not basking in the glory of everyone's favorite day. As much as she wanted to push them out of her head, the insults Monty threw at her kept rearing their ugly selves at every occasional moment.

 _Non!_ Fifi thought heatedly. _Get a grip! Just keep walking!_

She continued on, her mind caught in a tug-of-war while being frustrated at how beautiful the approaching evening was and how she couldn't appreciate it.

A few minutes into the walk, Fifi and Hamton passed Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor. Looking over the Parson Brown snowman and through the windows, Fifi noticed several couples sitting together at the bar and tables, chatting, laughing, and sharing ice cream.

Then there were those on the streets. Fifi had been so taken by the romance in Frosty's that she almost ran into a man and woman who were walking the opposite way.

"Watch where you're going!" the woman scolded, wrapping closer to her sweetheart when she saw Fifi glancing between her and him with a blush on her face. "Don't even think about it, skunk! Get your own boyfriend!"

They walked off, leaving Fifi stunned, her composed mood evaporating like the air she breathed through her nose as she sighed.

"Fifi?" Hamton asked gently.

She gave a light sniff. "Oui?"

"You okay?"

Trying her utmost not to cry, Fifi lowered her head and said nothing. Out of the corner of her watering eyes, she saw Hamton staring to the ground as well. He looked just as gloomy as Babs and Shirley had when they tried to cheer her up.

And speaking of her friends. . .

She and Hamton passed the Acme Mall, where Plucky and Shirley planned on spending part of their date. Then they walked by the Acme Movie Theater, where Babs and Buster were no doubt seated together right now, sitting through a comedy about a man with a green mask.

Everywhere Fifi turned, there seemed to be people pulling close to their special someone to share warmth. They were reminders, showing off the one thing she wanted above everything else and did not have: a wonderful, perfect man to call her own. And all these signs of love brought her back to that moment in the hall, facing Montana Max who shouted with malicious cruelty:

 _'. . . you stink! You make people gag and wretch with your very presence! No one can stand being around you . . .'_

Fifi cringed.

 _Non_! she thought desperately. _Think of something else! Anything else_!

She and Hamton were now a few blocks away from the Acme City Dump; Fifi could make out the surrounding fence and the snow-covered tire towers peaking over it. She was almost home; her warm, lovely pink Cadillac was waiting for her. But then her mind rewound again.

 _'...you might as well date this garbage. It's just like you: it smells, you live in it at the Dump, and it's all any man will ever see when they look at you!'_

They had reached the Dump's block, but Fifi stopped in her tracks, her head bowed and her eyes going moist again. The numbed pain in her chest became fresh and she felt the cold air sting her eyes. Monty's taunts were spiraling in her mind like an illness — something nasty and unwelcome. She wanted to push them away, to disregard them for the cruel lies they were, but . . . she couldn't. Her fluffy tail drooped and rested atop the stone cold sidewalk.

And there she stood, feeling miserable and alone, and the sad truth of it was . . . she _was_ alone. There wasn't a single boy in Acme Acres or anywhere else who thought of her as someone worthy of love. There was nobody who wanted to hold her, or caress her . . . or kiss her. . .

"Fifi?"

Fifi looked up in surprise, her tears blurring Hamton's image. She wiped them quickly with her scarf.

"Sorry," she said croakily, knowing she must look pathetic. "I did not mean . . ."

Hamton frowned with sympathy. "You're still sad about what Monty said, aren't you?"

Her gaze fell to the snow-covered sidewalk and nodded, feeling ashamed.

"Fifi, come on. Don't worry about that," said Hamton. "It's like Shirley said: Monty's only trying to make you feel miserable. We all know what he's like, you said so this morning, and you know that nothing he said is true."

"Is it not?" Fifi asked tearfully, turning to look down the street at nothing in particular. "I have been looking all my life, Hamton, and I still have not found anyone. Babs has Buster, Shirley has Plucky. But I . . . I still have not found _mine_. I have tried, but no boy wants to go out with me. Nobody wants to date a skunk . . . nobody wants a girl like me. . . ."

Fifi closed her eyes and let the misery sink in. The whole city seemed to have gone still. Cars drove on by down the street, unknowing and uncaring for why two young Toons were standing alone outside a snowy junkyard.

Though she knew Hamton was beside her, Fifi felt isolated and strained. What was she doing, she thought, bothering Hamton with her personal tragedies? He must think something's wrong with her. Her friends don't need to hear her sorrows. It's bad enough Fifi had no one to hold, but if she lost her friends too. . . .

But then, to Fifi's surprise, she felt Hamton pat the side of her arm. She looked up.

"Fifi. . ." said Hamton, his gaze set on hers. He opened his mouth, but his voice stifled. He tried again, "I . . . I . . ."

Fifi blinked, feeling puzzled. Hamton seemed to be struggling with words that were too complicated for him to say. A few more times he opened his mouth but did not speak. Then at last he sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. I don't know if anything I say will matter, but Fifi . . . I do understand how you feel."

"You do?" she asked, who could not imagine how he could.

With another sigh, Hamton put his hands back into his pockets. "Fifi . . . sometimes it's hard for me not to feel lonely too, whenever our friends are holding hands or hugging . . . or kissing. . . ." He paused, looking cautious, as though wondering if it was a good idea to say all of this. "I know I might not look like it, but I wish sometimes that there was someone with me too, like this morning when it was so cold. I mean, I know it probably wouldn't have made the wind less freezing, but I'd like to think it'd be comforting to know there's someone who cares about you standing there, walking beside you, being there with you."

He bowed his head, gazing solemnly at the ground. Fifi stared at him, perplexed as well as touched; Hamton really did understand how she felt.

"Zat must be hard, Hamton," said Fifi gently. "I never knew. . . ."

"Yeah . . ." he said uneasily. "It is hard. But . . . even though I didn't have that person I love standing next to me . . . I think she and I will come together one day. It might not be for a while, but I'm confident it will happen eventually. I believe that she and I will hold hands one day, and that she'll know how much she means to me."

"And _me_ , Hamton?" Fifi asked, eyeing him carefully. "Do you really believe there is hope of me finding _my_ special someone?"

Hamton looked up at her, almost pityingly. Then, with clear confidence, he smiled. "Yes. I really do believe you'll find that special someone." Clearing his throat, Hamton walked up to Fifi and stopped two feet in front of her.

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Fifi thought Hamton looked a little sad — not in the face, but in the eyes. . . .

He sighed. "Fifi . . . I know you've been searching for a long time, waiting for a long time, and all that waiting can be hard and frustrating. But you deserve to have someone love you.

"Fifi . . ." His eyes were set fixedly on hers, "I know with absolute certainty that there's a boy out there who loves you, someone who thinks you're the most wonderful girl there is. He is real and he would do _anything_ to be with you. So please don't let Monty discourage you. You need to keep yourself happy and hopeful — not just for your true love but for yourself, so that when you finally realize who does make you happy, you'll be able to smile and laugh, knowing you won't have to search anymore . . . and neither will he. . . .

"So, yeah," Hamton said, grinning. "There is _plenty_ of hope that you'll find that special someone. In fact, Fifi, I say it's a certainty."

Fifi stared at Hamton, mesmerized. The place where Monty's words had been eating away at her were vanishing as though she had taken an Acme All-Cure Tonic. Her heart beat easily and her mind felt calm.

Smiling tearfully, Fifi flung her arms around Hamton — her friend who had been kind enough to wait for her, to walk her home, and who now gave her all she needed to be hopeful.

"Bless you, Hamton," said Fifi softly, nuzzling her wet cheek against his. "You are so, so sweet. And you are right!" She released her hug. "I must not stop. I mean," she gave a bemused expression, " _moi_? Fifi La Fume, stop looking for love? Ha!" she laughed to the cold air. "I would like to see Monty think zat!"

Finding his voice, his face quite red, Hamton stammered, "Well, h-he certainly does try. But all the more reason not to let him get to you."

"Well, he had a good try, I shall admit, but not good enough!" Fifi declared. "Besides, he has a lot of nerve to talk about romance. I mean, _he_ does not have anyone."

"Unless you count his hundred gold-framed mirrors that he admires himself in each morning," Hamton suggested.

Fifi giggled. "Oui. He is probably ze only one who would ever put up with his stuck-up, snooty self. Well . . . besides Elmyra."

"Well, that's no surprise," said Hamton matter-0f-factly. "She thinks rabid grizzly bears look cute. Monty probably looks like a cute little beaver to her. I mean, he's already got the buck teeth and the bite to show for it."

Fifi and Hamton laughed even louder.

When their laughs died down, both went quiet for a moment.

"Well . . ." said Hamton, raising his hand to the City Dump. "You're home now, Fifi. Will you be all right?"

"Oh, oui, mon ami," said Fifi gratefully. "Thank you so much, Hamton. I feel simply fantastique. I may not have mon petit skunk-hunk, but it is wonderful to know I have a good, kind friend like you."

Hamton gave a bashful smile. "Happy to help," he said. "Have a good night, Fifi."

"And bonsoir to you as well, Hamton," said Fifi, beaming. "Thank you for walking me home. I really cannot thank you enough."

"Oh, well . . ." Hamton hesitated, smiling. "Just . . . just promise you'll smile and keep your eyes open for your . . . skunk-hunk."

Fifi nodded. "Of course. Well, Good night, Hamton." And with a wave, she stepped over the Dump's threshold and onto the snow-covered ground laden with footprints, her pink Cadillac waiting for her in the middle of the yard.

She opened the passenger side door and the fresh smell of roses greeted her.

Humming the intro to "Habanera", Fifi stepped inside and turned to give Hamton one more smile, but found that he had already walked off, leaving the fence's entryway empty, except for a passing car.

* * *

Hamton reached his house with his hands covering his face, and not because of the cold weather; quite the contrary, the weather could've been below zero and he still would've been more than plenty warm. No, it was to keep any passersby from thinking his face was on fire, as well as to why he was grinning as though he were struck with insanity.

Glancing in his bathroom mirror, Hamton saw that his cheeks had taken on a reddish glow so deep it looked as though there were a lit match inside his mouth. His cheeks stayed red the more his mind relived the moment when Fifi had wrapped her arms around him.

Every wonderful detail was crystal clear: her soft fur, her warm cheek, her silky lilac hair brushing against his bald head.

For five whole minutes, Hamton stared unseeingly into the mirror, hearing Fifi's words of thanks and drowning in the delight that it was he, Hamton, who had made her feel better.

He awoke abruptly from this wonderful daydream when a ringing sound came a few rooms away. Hamton, who was slowly getting over the effects of his euphoria, ignored the telephone and listened as the answering machine took the call; he wanted to savor his daydream for just a little longer.

With a few relaxing breaths, Hamton's face quickly returned to its normal pigment, though his happiness kept his smile from fading. He then returned to the living room and looked down at the telephone.

To his surprise, not one but six messages were waiting to be heard on the answering machine, and in under fifteen minutes, Hamton called and scheduled six cleanings — three of them for this evening. With the first being at 5:30, Hamton decided now would be as good a time as any to start on his Calculations homework; No reason to relax with TV when you're less than an hour away from doing some serious work.

He pulled out his pencil, his notebook, and his ninety pound Calculations textbook and sat down on the couch to start the first equation, which proved to be difficult.

It was amazing how something like a walk or a hug could wipe all other thoughts from your mind, even those you were set on so determinedly. But like all important things, they had a habit of reappearing and reminding, and Hamton was reminded again of the mission he had set for himself.

With Dec.23rd being only eighteen days away, Hamton knew most of this weekend would have to be dedicated to raising money. And after receiving such a heavenly hug, Hamton was more determined than ever to get Fifi a bottle of Du Coeur.

He had time, he told himself. He would do it for Fifi. He would show her that there _was_ someone who thought the world of her.

"I'll do it," he said, full of determination. "I'll be that special someone. . . ."

5:00 arrived much faster than Hamton expected. With a weary sigh, he put down his Calculations notebook without any satisfaction, for he had only managed to complete three problems. They were plenty challenging, no doubt, but Hamton's train of thought kept getting interrupted by the telephone. Five more people had called and requested cleaning for tomorrow. Now with a total of eight jobs for Saturday, Hamton's confidence that it would all be no problem was starting to taste like moldy baloney.

But then he thought again of Fifi and the hug she gave him: her soft cheek against his, her face so very close to his. . . . And just like that, everything felt not only possible to Hamton, but easy.

With his cleaning supplies stocked and ready, Hamton buttoned up his coat, grabbed the list of addresses he wrote down, and headed out into the cold, dark evening — confident, and thinking of Fifi all the way.

 _~$1250 to go - 19 Days until Dec.24th~_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome. I hope to have this fanfiction finished by next Christmas. Hopefully. . . .**


	13. The Eight Houses

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

 _The Eight Houses_

 _~Dec. 6th~_

Hamton could still smell lemon disinfectant and glass cleaner when he rose from bed on Saturday morning. The overalls he had worn the night before were lying in the laundry basket beside his closet, stained and blotched with chemicals, giving off an odor strong enough to make anyone cough.

Getting out of bed, stiff and bleary eyed, Hamton carried the damp clothes to the laundry room. Then, after splashing some water onto his face in the bathroom sink, he returned to his bedroom and sat down at his desk, able to focus now that his room didn't reek of overpowering citrus.

He pressed a hand to his face and let out a small yawn, his elbows resting on a pile of dollars. Hamton had returned home last night just as the Acme Loo bell tower chimed midnight, and, having only enough strength to throw on his pajamas, he had dropped the money carelessly onto his desk and went to bed immediately afterward.

With the sunlight filtering in through his frost-covered window, Hamton counted yesterday's earnings. It totaled not to thirty dollars as he originally thought, but to fifty.

* * *

 _(yesterevening)_

The first two cleaning jobs took Hamton only two hours and were fairly simple, if only slightly awkward.

The first house belonged to a school staff member whom no one ever saw. Indeed, as he went about cleaning, Hamton never once spotted the person's face. Every time he looked or passed from room to room, the man was either blocked by something or was turned facing the other way.

Calamity Coyote owned the second house, which very few people knew the location to; it took Hamton over half an hour to find it, even with the address written on paper. And when he finally got there, Hamton found it to be more of a warehouse than an actual home. Boxes of roadrunner traps and blueprints of failed plans covered the floor and walls. By the time he finished cleaning, Hamton must've swept up more than five-hundred pounds of Acme Birdseed.

But other than the unseen staff member and tripping over a few dusty blueprints, Hamton had little to no trouble going about his job.

In the end, it was the third house that turned his work into a workout. It belonged to Arnold the Pit Bull, who nearly always wore sunglasses — even at night.

After sweeping and moping the floors, and after dusting and sorting Arnold's self-portraits (all 583 of them), Hamton finished around 9:00 and was eager to get home. But just as he headed to the front door, Arnold held out his big muscular arm to halt Hamton's path.

"Wait, little piggy, just wait there," he said in his famous, posh celebrity voice. "I have one more little thing to ask of you. I'll pay an extra twenty dollars if you polish my mirror collection and my life-size statue of myself."

To this, Hamton felt eager at the prospect of extra pay; anything to help him get closer to buying Fifi's present. And besides, it was only 9:00; how long could polishing a few extra things take?

The moment he laid eyes on Arnold's collection and the statue, Hamton wished he had just walked out the door.

There were _literally_ a million mirrors covering every available surface: the walls, the ceiling, even the floors. It was the size of a ballroom (never mind how Arnold managed to fit it inside his house) and the so-called "life-sized" marble statue in the center was _twice_ the size of the real Arnold, so that it towered over Hamton like a pale gorilla wearing a speedo.

How Arnold managed to stay in this room for longer than a minute and not get dizzy, Hamton had no clue. The effect of all the mirrors and the countless reflections were extremely disorienting; Hamton couldn't turn his head without seeing himself at a hundred different angles.

Thinking it over carefully, Hamton started with Arnold's statue. This alone wasn't very enjoyable. The statue was highly detailed with every curve and line of Arnold's well-toned physique. Though he knew it was only a statue, Hamton still felt weird running a cloth over its bare stony skin, cleaning the dust out of its nose, ears, and toes. Being centered in the exact middle of the room, Hamton viewed himself and the statue from every possible position: left and right, up and down, frontwards and backwards, and every other way to make anyone's head spin off.

Then there were the mirrors, which proved to be far worse. Hamton had to get a stepladder from Arnold's garage and place it down gently so as not to break the mirrors on the floor. One by one, Hamton sprayed and wiped them off: moving up and down the ladder, then moving it over to the next row, and so on and so on until all the ones on the walls were cleaned. Then came the ones on the ceiling, and more than once Hamton felt his eyes burn as speaks of glass cleaner floated over his eyes. And finally, there were the ones on the floor, which were even more dirty than before because Hamton had walked across them in his job of cleaning the others.

When he was at last finished, Hamton's overalls were soaked with cleaner. His energy nearly depleted, he took the twenty dollars Arnold promised him and walked right out the door, the winter night air freezing his skin under his damp clothes.

* * *

 _(Saturday)_

Quite thankful he hadn't caught a cold, Hamton wrote down the results of last night's labor.

 _$1250_

 _-$30_

 _(three houses cleaned)_

 _-$20_  
 _(cleaned Arnold's statue and mirror collection)_

 _$1200_

Hamton gave the list a fond smile. He was getting there, he told himself. He had three-hundred dollars so far. Given that it's only been four days since he started, Hamton believed he was doing pretty well so far. But, in gazing down at the enormous twelve-hundred dollars remaining, Hamton knew he still had a long way to go, and with the due date now being December 23rd, he also knew he would have to pick up the pace if he was to have any chance of making it before the deadline.

Standing up and looking over to his alarm clock, Hamton saw that it was 8:00 and decided breakfast would be the first thing to do before he set off for his first cleaning job of the day.

Then, without warning, just as this thought occurred to him, Hamton stopped dead as he realized something — something so shocking that he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it until now. . . .

He had been so busy yesterevening — what with the cleaning, dusting, and going back and forth — that he forgot to eat dinner!

Hamton rushed to the kitchen so fast that the carpet almost caught on fire. Suddenly starving, he grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet, poured himself a bowl, and ate the whole thing in under ten seconds — without milk. Then, still hungry, he made himself two slices of toast with four fried eggs and poured a sixteen-ounce glass of orange juice.

Five minutes later, wiping his lips on his napkin, Hamton let out a relieved sigh and patted his belly. Even after such a filling breakfast, he still felt the urge to eat more, but shook his head on it. He may love to eat (quite the understatement of the century), but Hamton did know when to stop. Like his mother had said in her letter, "…sometimes too much was too much, even for a pig." And besides, Hamton thought, lunch was only three hours away.

"Yeah, I can definitely wait."

His stomach gave a disapproving growl.

"Oh, hush," Hamton criticized. "Don't be such a pig."

After carrying his dishes over to the sink, Hamton heard the telephone ring from the living room. Quickly rinsing his hands, he rushed out of the kitchen, wiped his hands on his pajamas, and picked up the phone's receiver.

"Hello?" he said, half-expecting another job offer.

"Morning, Hamton."

"Oh, hey, Babs," he said, falling back on the couch. "How are you doing?"

"Pretty good, thanks. I just got off the phone with Fifi. From the sounds of it, you really helped her feel better yesterday." She paused, then added in a honeyed tone, "She kept talking about how sweet you were, Hamton."

Hamton felt his cheeks burn with delight. "Oh, um . . . well, I-I just tried cheering her up. I told her not to listen to Monty and to keep looking, you know. . . ."

"Well, you did very good, Hamton, being there for her," she said warmly. "Thank you for getting her home."

"Hey, I promised you guys, didn't I?" Hamton said grinning. "So," he added on a happy note, "how was your date with Buster?"

"Not very fun," Babs replied, "which is a shame, because the movie we went to was hilarious. We were just too worried about Fifi to enjoy ourselves. Same with Plucky and Shirley — she called me not to long ago before I called Fifi. She and Plucky browsed around the Mall for a couple hours before calling it a night. Which reminds me. . . . Hamton, do you have any plans for the evening?"

"For this evening?" he asked curiously. "Well . . . no, Babs, I don't think so. I do have some work today, though. I got eight phone calls from people asking to clean their houses. You know, so I can raise money for Fifi's present."

"Will it take you all day to clean?"

Hamton paused and tried to think in advance. He hadn't thought about how much time it would take to clean that many houses. It all depended on how much he was asked to clean, not to mention it mattered whether or not the houses were simple or overly complex like Arnold's had been.

"Well, Babs . . ." said Hamton, trying to guess a time. "I think I should be able to finish sometime this late afternoon. I'll be leaving soon to clean the first house at 9:00 and it usually takes me about forty-five minutes if I'm quick, so I _might_ be done with everything around 3:00 or so — if I'm lucky."

"Okay," she said. "I don't mean to make you feel rushed, but . . ." she sighed, "well, you see, Hamton, me and Buster only went out last night because Fifi told us to. We were too worried about her to enjoy ourselves, so me and Buster both thought the six of us could get together tonight and have some fun as a group. I've already called Fifi, Shirley, and Plucky, and they're all in for it. So . . . do you think you can meet us at the Mall around 4:00? We can all have dinner together, too."

Hamton didn't answer at first, but just held the phone to his ear. The silence from both his house and the one on the phone's other end seemed to weigh on his mind so that it was hard to think straight.

Could he really finish eight houses all before 4:00? It may just be better to tell Babs that he was too busy and needed to raise money for Fifi's gift. He was on a deadline, after all, and it will take every precious minute to raise the remaining twelve-hundred dollars.

On the other hand, Hamton did want to spend time with his friends. When it came down to it, he honestly didn't think raising money could ever be more important than his friends, no matter what the reason. Plus, he reminded himself, he had no way of knowing how long each house would take to finish; he may just end up vacuuming the carpet for a few who were simply too lazy to do it themselves.

Not to mention, his friends were usually quite busy as it was. Fifi and Plucky both had their jobs down at the Country Club, Shirley spent most of her free time meditating, and Buster and Babs were usually dating or off on some crazy adventure together. And, if _that_ all wasn't enough, the Cartoon Exams were coming up in two weeks. Really, until the Christmas party on the twenty-fourth, how many other days will there be when he and his friends could get together and have a little fun?

Hamton's mind and heart seemed to know what the better answer was. Yes, there was no doubt. He would just have to make it work.

"Okay, Babs," said Hamton, his voice bracingly clear. "I'll do my best to meet you all at 4:00. I should tell you, however, that I _might_ be a little late, so keep that mind. Should we all meet at the usual spot?"

"Yeah, right outside the food court," said Babs, sounding happy at Hamton's decision. "It'll be great to hang out together, Hamton. I think Fifi will be especially glad to see you."

Blushing again, Hamton said, "Sounds great."

"Just remember, please, Hamton," said Babs, now sounding concerned, "don't push yourself too much. I mean, seriously? Eight houses? You should've scheduled some for tomorrow or later."

"Most of them could only be done today," Hamton explained. "If I had the choice, I _would've_ chosen Sunday. But . . . oh well."

"Yeah . . . but all the same, be careful, Hamton. You did promise us you would, you know."

"Yes, I remember that, Babs," he said mildly. "I'll be careful."

"Good," she said. "Hope it all goes well, Hamton. We'll see you around 4:00."

"Okay, Babs. See you all later," he said, placing the receiver down with a click.

Without wasting another valuable second, he rushed to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and took a fast shower.

Once out and dressed, he got together his cleaning supplies, a list holding eight addresses, and pulled on his winter coat and hat.

Taking a deep breath at how busy his day was about to become, Hamton gripped the handles of his Acme Ultra-Storage duffel bag and stepped out into the bright December morning.

* * *

The first house on Hamton's massive schedule belonged to Professor Wile E. Coyote, who tasked Hamton with sweeping and sorting the many road runner traps that littered his Thinking Room. The traps were strangely similar to those from Calamity Coyote's home, except that Professor Coyote's were much more low-tech and much more likely to malfunction if Hamton wasn't careful. It was a very easy ten dollars, with the only downside being that he had accidentally set off a giant catapult, which somehow crashed onto Professor Coyote — regardless of the fact that he was two rooms away _and_ locked inside a panic room. Thankfully, Hamton was able to pull him out from under the catapult's giant wood frame. To his surprise, Professor Coyote just laughed off the pain and held up a sign which said, "Nothing New."

The next two houses belonged to Professors Sylvester and Speedy Gonzales. The two were apparently having their usual weekend workout, which involved the former chasing the latter "for the sake of exercise". However, as Hamton dusted off Sylvester's bookshelf, most of which comprised of cookbooks for birds and mice, he wondered if Sylvester didn't have ulterior motives. And sorting out his collection of mousetraps (none of which looked like they had ever caught anything except dust) only increased this theory.

The only thing Professor Gonzales had Hamton do was polish his collection of marathon trophies and golden race medals. Given how many there were, this alone took a full hour to finish.

At 11:00, Hamton reached the fourth house on his list, Professor Foghorn Leghorn's, and it was here that his jobs took a turn for the more frustrating.

"No, boy, I say, no, that's not how you disinfect!" said Leghorn, snatching the spray bottle right out of Hamton's hand. He then sprayed in several spots at once and additionally added some disinfectant to the rag. "There. You see, Hamton? You should also spray some _on_ the rag. It helps with the whole area between the spots you already sprayed."

Sighing politely, Hamton followed the suggestion. But his sighs didn't stop there. Professor Leghorn continued throwing out advice and instructions as though he and Hamton were in class.

"I say, we don't dust books while they're on the shelves. Take them off and do them one at a time."

"I say, I usually start in the center and mop to the outside of the room."

"I say, well, I say, Hamton, are you sure those gloves shouldn't be replaced? This is, I say, this is my bathroom, not a mud woller, you know!"

Closing his eyes, feeling his patience starting to strain, Hamton silently took every suggestion and put up with everything else Professor Leghorn bellowed out. Hamton knew, when it came to jobs like cleaning, that the customer was always right, and he was more than willing to work to meet his customer's demands. But still, he felt he would do much better if said customer didn't treat him like a dog on a leash.

"All right, here ya go, Hamton," said Leghorn, handing Hamton his ten dollars at the end. "I must say you did a fine job. And very polite, I might add. Whenever I have people over, they usually tell me to shut my beak."

"Imagine that," said Hamton indifferently, then rushing out the door before another word could be spoken.

Hamton had just reached the sidewalk when the Acme Loo clock tower chimed 12:00.

"Lunch time!" Hamton said excitedly. In under ten seconds, he hurried back to his house, only two blocks away. Rushing in, he washed his hands thoroughly and then rushed back out, holding a prepared sandwich and an apple. Happily, never minding the cold weather, Hamton walked down the snowy sidewalk to the next house while taking bites of his lunch.

"MMM!" he said while chewing. "Olive loaf!"

So far, the day was going well. He was four houses down and had four left to go, and, with a full stomach, Hamton felt confident everything would go swimmingly from here on until the end.

How very mistaken he was. . . .

* * *

When Hamton rang the fifth house's doorbell, he gave a startled jump. A loud, very grouchy man from inside had shouted, " Junior! Get the door!"

A very dopey sounding voice responded, "Uh, okay, Pa! Yes, right away! Coming, Mr. or Mrs. Visitor!"

The door opened a few seconds later and Hamton took a step back in surprise, staring up at a tall brown-colored bear. And a very strange bear he was.

Though he was tall enough to be considered an adult, everything about the bear suggested him being an underage kid. He was wearing a blue baseball cap on his furry head and a matching t-shirt which looked a size too small, and, wrapped around his wide bottom, was a very, very large white diaper. The bear also had the strange expression of someone who was tired and confused, yet oddly awake and attentive.

"Ah, hello, Mr. Pig," he said in his low kiddy voice. "Ma! Pa!" he called out in through the doorway. "The cleaner is here!"

"Ah, good," came a woman's voice. "Invite him in, Junior."

"Okay, Ma. Right this way, Mr. Pig." Junior stepped aside and politely gestured his arm inward.

"Uh . . . thanks," said Hamton, walking in while trying not to feel weirded-out by the tall, childish bear.

The inside of the house was fitted with the latest technology that could be bought in the 90s, including CD players, stereos the size of bookshelves, a TV as big as a sofa, and — who would've guessed — an honest-to-goodness VCR that played both tapes _and_ Betamax.

Sitting in an armchair was another bear, this one wearing glasses and a white work shirt with a red necktie. His fur was a darker shade of brown and he was much shorter than Junior by a considerable degree. A newspaper was held in his furry hands as he glared at Hamton with crystal-clear suspicion.

Lastly, a third bear entered the room, this one the same height and color as Junior. The look on her face was sweet and welcoming.

"Oh, hello, Hamton," and Mama Bear, wearing her sweatpants and pink sweatshirt, having entered the living room through the kitchen doorway.

"Hi, Mrs. Bear," Hamton replied politely. "Working out today?"

"Oh, yes. Got to burn those calories off before I put them back on for Christmas. I just can't get enough of those holiday cookies."

Hamton chuckled. "Yeah, me too."

"You two know each other?" asked Papa Bear in a gruff voice.

"Oh, yes, dear," said Mama Bear, her smile contradicting her husband's frown. "Hamton is one the school's politest students. He never complains about what I put on his plate when I work in the cafeteria. Always eats it right up, don't you, Hamton?" she asked, beaming at him.

"Always, Mrs. Bear," said Hamton with a nod. "Leave no crumb uneaten, that's my motto."

Not saying anything to this, Papa Bear hid his face again behind his newspaper, grumbling with annoyance.

"Oh, Henry," Mama Bear muttered, shaking her head. "Okay, Hamton. If you step this way, I'll show you what I'd like your help with."

Hamton followed her upstairs, giving another quick glance over to Junior and Henry; the son gave Hamton a wave, the father a glare.

In all regards, this would've been a perfectly normal job, except for one very noticeable, very uncomfortable factor. Hamton could only guess it was because so much of what the Bears owned was expensive, because he soon found he couldn't touch anything without Papa Bear popping up out of nowhere to eye Hamton critically.

Trying to keep a calm face, Hamton sprayed furniture polish onto an oak dresser while glancing cautiously over his shoulder, where a pair of mean, black eyes stared back at him from the bedroom's doorway.

"I'm watching you," Papa Bear growled, his arms crossed.

"I can see that," said Hamton pointedly.

Finding he worked best if he pretended Papa Bear wasn't there, Hamton went about cleaning, trying to keep his eyes on whatever was in his hands. In no time, all the bedroom furniture was shiny and dust free.

Then came the bathroom.

"I lost over five toys down the drain," said Junior, pointing into the bathtub. "Be careful not to fall in, Mr. Pig."

"Don't worry, I won't be going into the tub," said Hamton. "So, Mrs. Bear, you just want me to do the floor?"

"Yes, dear," said Mama Bear. "It's been a long time since we cleaned the spacing between the tiles and they've gotten quite filthy."

"Leave it to me," said Hamton determinedly.

Papa Bear entered the room and took a seat on the edge of the tub. "Again, I'll be watching you," he threatened.

"Henry," said Mama Bear warningly, "you be nice. Hamton's a very honest student, you don't have to worry."

"I'm just being careful, dear," he said in a grumble, not taking his eyes off Hamton while tapping his furry fingers on the tub's edge.

"Uh, Pa?" said Junior, sounding worried. "I don't think you should sit there."

"Quiet, Junior! I'm making sure the cleaner does his job, and _nothing else_!" he finished coldly.

 _What does he think I'm planning to do?_ Hamton thought. _Steal the toilet?_

With a scrub brush and a can of ACME Dirt Dissolver, Hamton began scrapping between the tiles, not stopping until the faded gray turned to pale white. From one end of the bathroom he worked, occasionally moving toys Junior had left lying in the middle of the floor, including a ball and roller-skate.

Reaching the last tile, Hamton sighed with relief as he stood up. His arms were tired from all the scrubbing, but it was easily ignored as he took pride in how the floor sparkled, completely free of grime, his blurred reflection smiling back at him.

"Very nice job, Hamton," said Mama Bear happily when she came back to check. "Didn't he do a good job, Henry?"

The short, grouchy bear glanced at the spotless floor, his arms crossed. "Yeah . . . I _guess_ he did all right."

He then leaned forward off the tub.

"Henry, watch out!" cried Mama Bear, but it was too late.

Papa Bear stepped onto the roller-skate that Hamton had pushed off to the side. Henry's foot shot forward like a kick and he was thrown back towards the tub. His arms flailing, he fell in.

Hamton, Mama Bear, and Junior ran forward and looked inside the tub, where they found nothing except a very dark, small, open drain.

"I tried to tell you, Pa!" Junior called into the tub, his voice echoing from the drain. An angry, indecipherable shout answered back.

With panic now pounding in his chest, Hamton quickly grabbed the bathroom's plunger, placed it down over the tub's drain, and began pressing and pulling. Mama Bear and Junior watched with tension.

After a couple pulls, Hamton gripped hard on the plunger's wooden handle and jerked upright. There was a loud PLOP, and the plunger let up, now holding a large, grimy rubber ducky.

"Hey!" Junior said happily. "There you are, Mr. Tubby! I've missed you!"

Junior lovingly took the dirty bath toy and Hamton again pressed the plunger down over the bathtub's drain. The next thing to come out was a drenched action figure, then a soggy coloring book, then a miniature sail boat, all the toys Junior had lost in his many baths.

On the fifth try, the plunger pulled off on the item with another loud PLOP and, to Hamton's curiosity, saw a handle of some kind sticking out of the drain. Junior recognized it at once.

"My fishing pole!" he said eagerly, reaching out to grab the handle. "Oh, I'll never use my toys in the tub again. Hmm . . . what's this?"

Junior pulled up on the pole. In response, a tug came from the fishing line which was running down into the tub's dark hole. Junior began to reel in. A few moments passed with the buzzing reel winding the line back on the pole, then, all of a sudden, the drain began to stretch as the top of a head appeared — a head with short, furry ears.

With one final tug and grunt, Papa Bear flew right out of the tub's drain with a POP, his glasses askew, his shirt spattered with grime, and his face twisted in fury.

"You should've been more careful, Pa," said Junior.

Grinding his teeth, Papa Bear clenched his fists. He turned to Hamton with a glare.

"Trip me with a roller-skate, will ya?" He went so red in the face that Hamton could've sworn he smelled smoke. Before he knew it, he was hoisted up by the straps of his overalls and Papa Bear reared back his closed fist. Frightened, Hamton closed his eyes.

WHACK!

Papa Bear's eyes went cross-eyed and dropped Hamton, who landed gently on the floor. Mama Bear was holding a tightly folded newspaper over her husband's head.

"That's not how we deal with our anger, Henry," said Mama Bear, whose voice was both serious and strangely mellow. "Junior did try to warn you about the tub, but you didn't listen. And Hamton didn't mean for you trip on that roller-skate, did you Hamton?"

"No," Hamton replied, shaking his head. "Of course not."

Rubbing his hairy scalp, Papa Bear left the room, grumbling angrily.

"Junior," said Mama Bear, hands on her hips. "How many times must I tell you not to leave your toys lying around on the floor? Someone could get really hurt."

"Yes, Ma, sorry" said Junior guilty, bending over to pick up his skate and the other toys Hamton pulled from the drain.

"Well, Hamton," said Mama Bear with a sigh. "I think it'll be best if we just skip the kitchen."

"Are you sure?" asked Hamton.

"Oh, yes. With Henry in the mood he's in, it might be better for you to be out of his way."

Grabbing his scrubber and Dirt Dissolver, Hamton returned downstairs where Mama Bear handed him his payment.

"Thanks for the help, Hamton," she said kindly. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem," Hamton replied, placing the money in his pocket.

Picking up his duffel bag, Hamton glanced into the kitchen where Papa Bear, still grumbling, placed an ice pack over where his wife had smacked him.

One icy glare from him was all it took for Hamton to be sure it was time to leave.

* * *

The afternoon was still early as Hamton set off down the sidewalk for the next house. He did so with apprehension in the pit of his stomach, made no better due to the cold weather. The cleaning at the Bear's house filled Hamton with the uneasy dread that suggested the rest of his day's work was not meant to be easy. Whether this was an actual prediction or mere instinct, Hamton didn't know, but, sadly, it happened either way.

The sixth house, Hamton noted when he walked inside, was already very clean. In fact, as far as he could tell from where he stood, it was downright spotless. The living room rug was placed in the exact center under the couch, loveseat, and foot stool, all exactly five inches apart. The fireplace's hearth had not one speck of ash, and the mantle above had two sparkling vases set at the end with a single picture frame centered between them. There was a plant in every corner of the room, there were two lamps set alongside the couch, and every picture frame (all of which were the same size) was bright and clear. And there, sitting on the coffee table which matched the furniture, was a fifty-pound bottle of hand-sanitizer.

It was so orderly and symmetrical that Hamton found it slightly off-putting. In truth, there was nothing that _needed_ cleaning, but the student who assigned Hamton thought otherwise.

The reason for the symmetry, Hamton learned, was because the student and his family were obsessive-compulsive. Their orderly, germ-free house had, according to the student, "become so orderly that it made the room look dirty." It was Hamton's job to arrange things to give the place a different feel that said "clean" but not so clean that it made the family go blind.

Not having the foggiest idea what to make of this job, Hamton picked up one of the plants and placed it next to its twin in the opposite corner.

"AHHH! NO! What are you doing!" shouted the student. "I said to make the place clean, not off balance!"

His eyebrows raised, Hamton moved the plant back where it was.

The student gave a discomforted hiss, as though the air tasted sour. "No! Now it's just . . . just no!"

Hamton tried taking the rug from the living room and placed it near the entryway.

"Ah, no!" the student exclaimed, frantically scrubbing some hand-sanitizer into his palms. "That rug isn't supposed to get dirty! That part of the floor is too rough for it!"

Feeling slightly annoyed, Hamton returned the rug to the living room, and then rotated it to its previous position. All the while, the student's face twisted up as though he were inflicted with boiling constipation.

It went on like this for forty long minutes. Hamton moved the vases over onto the coffee table; the student yelled and applied more hand-sanitizer. Hamton rearranged the couch, loveseat, and foot stool so that they pointed inward; the student applied more hand-sanitizer while apparently trying to swallow his tongue. Hamton, who by this point was grinding his teeth, tried putting a blindfold on the student.

"Hmm. . ." said the student thoughtfully. "This is actually pretty good, only now it's too dark.

Very quietly so that the student wouldn't hear, Hamton let off a growl of annoyance.

 _This is worse than Professor Leghorn_ , he thought. _At least_ he _was clear in what he wanted done._

Seeing as he touched so many unfamiliar surfaces, Hamton decided to take some hand-sanitizer himself. He pumped out a little bit of the liquid onto his palm and began to lather. From behind there came a shout of delight that made Hamton jump.

"That's it!" shrieked the student.

Hamton zipped around, his heart pounding. "Huh? What?"

"That!" said the student, pointing excitedly at the enormous bottle of hand-sanitizer. "You moved it! It's perfect!"

Confused, Hamton looked back. The plastic bottle, which had been in the dead center of the coffee table, was now turned slightly by a few degrees.

"That's the sort of thing me and my parents were looking for!" the student said eagerly. "It's near the center but not _quite_ centered. The room is nearly perfect but with a flaw small enough to be noticeable but not bothersome! Here," said the smiling student, handing Hamton his ten dollar payment. "Take it. You earned every cent!"

"Uh . . . thanks," said Hamton, still very confused.

"Oooh, this is perfect!" cheered the student. "All my parents have to do now is sanitize the air and everything will be perfect!"

* * *

"That had to be the weirdest money I've ever earned," said Hamton, walking down the sidewalk to house number seven.

The crisp ten-dollar bill in his hand seemed to reflect upon its previously overly-tidy owner. There were clear lines where it had been wrinkled; Hamton could've sworn it had been ironed and pressed so that it would lay flat. But no matter: it was perfectly good pay — ten dollars closer to Fifi's present.

Hamton supposed things weren't going _too_ badly. He had succeeded in finishing each house in at least an hour, and thus hadn't been late for the tight scheduling he made when the customers called. Nevertheless, however, Hamton made a mental note to leave a few minutes between future cleanings; it really was pure luck that he hasn't arrived late yet.

Passing the crosswalk on the next snow-covered block, Hamton caught a glimpse over a couple city buildings to the Acme Loo clock tower, which now read 1:30. He had little more than two hours left to meet his friends at the Mall. But Hamton wasn't worried. He only had two houses left, and he was arriving half an hour earlier than he originally planned. So, with determination, he marched up to the next house.

The place was completely covered in snow. Two unkempt pine trees stood beside the front door, blocking the windows and most of the front. A trail of white smoke came from out of the rounded top, but there didn't seem to be any chimney. The building gave the impression of a large igloo, the only thing clear of snow being the front door, which was shaped like a circle.

Hamton stepped forward and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened and Hamton's happy thoughts received a hard slap across the face. In the strangeness of his previous cleaning jobs and the plans of meeting up with his friends, Hamton had completely forgotten who's house he had scheduled for 2:00.

"Hi, Hamton," said the burly voice, belonging to a creature with scruffy brown fur, large canines, and a very, very hungry look on his face.

Coming out of his moment's alarm, Hamton cleared his throat and said, "Oh, uh . . . h-hi, P-Professor Taz."

 _How in Speilberg's name did I forget he had called?_ Hamton thought frantically.

Awkward and unbalanced from the yellow eyes staring down at him, Hamton held up his Ultra-Storage duffel bag and said with a shaky voice, "I-I'm hear to c-clean."

"And thirty minutes early," said Professor Taz, licking his lips. "You just caught me in the middle of a snack. Come on in."

 _I hope he's not still hungry. . ._ Hamton thought nervously.

He stepped over the threshold and stopped dead at the sight of what lay inside. It couldn't have been more different from the last house. In fact, it wasn't a house at all.

It was a cave — an honest-to-goodness cave. In what Hamton could only assume was the couch was a pile of flat rocks stacked atop each other, the sides stacked higher to form the couch's arms. It stood in front of — don't laugh — a working TV, carved from a gray boulder. It was the same with the other rooms one normally found in a house: the kitchen had a brick stove and a burning campfire underneath an iron spit; the bedroom composed of a large hay pile, straw tossed in various spots; and the bathroom contained nothing but a simple porcelain toilet and a bowl of water, which Hamton could only imagine was used for washing hands, albeit the lack of any soap.

Hamton pressed a hand over his mouth to keep himself from gagging. The air was rank with mildew and dirt, and was as cold as it was outside, the only available heat coming from the indoor campfire. The floor, which was, unsurprisingly, made of dirt, was covered in all sorts of rubbish. Broken bits of wood, assorted pebbles and rocks, and even a couple explosives laid throughout the room, and, looking off into a corner, Hamton guessed why. Right where someone might've kept a bookshelf, Professor Taz had a small stack of books. Hamton glimpsed some of the titles.

- _Mindlessness and Senselessness: A Guide to Proper and Effective Destruction in Cartoons_ by Renaldo Desperado

- _Tazmanien Tornado Techniques_ by Yours Truly

- _Gar-bull-de-gook: How to Speak More Clearly_ byEveryone Whose Mouth Wasn't Made for Talking

These titles, or at least the first two, offered some explanation for the mess on the floor. Professor Taz taught Destruction at Acme Loo, and Hamton guessed that, when he wasn't tearing apart a classroom (thank Spielberg for the school's insurance policy), Taz must've been practicing at home.

"So . . . uh," said Hamton, looking from one side of the messy cave to the next, "where do you want me to start?"

From out of nowhere (presumably Hammer-Space), Taz handed Hamton a simple feather duster.

"Dust cave," he said in his gruff, blithering voice.

Hamton took the feather duster by its wooden handle. "And?"

"Just dust."

Hamton gaped, eyeing the messy cave before looking back to Taz. "That's all?"

"That's all," Taz confirmed with a smile.

"But . . . but what about all this?" he pointed around at the mess, just now noticing, with a sharp flinch, a stack of TNT attached to a readied detonator.

Professor Taz shook his head. "Just dust."

And with that, the hairy teacher spun into his signature brown tornado and whirled away to the couch, blowing a cloud of dust up around Hamton. Coughing, Hamton waved the cloud away with the feather duster. He then glanced around the cave, wondering where to begin, as every corner had at least a full layer of dust and grime.

Besides the TV, which Professor Taz was now watching, the only other piece of technology in the cave was a wall clock, which read 1:35. Without thinking twice, Hamton pulled out some lemon-scented dust cleaner and got right to work, because 4:00 was much closer than it had been five minutes ago.

* * *

Hamton could hardly believe he had grimaced over Papa Bear's glares or ground his teeth with Foghorn Leghorn's ranting. It may have been only dust, but by the time he finished going over every surface in the bedroom alone, Hamton would've gladly traded Professor Taz's house for any of the other two.

His overalls had gone from being light blue to a dull gray. The grime and wet dust stuck to his hands and skin like fur, making Hamton shudder and rush to the bathroom to wash his hands before starting again. And no sooner had he finished cleaning the bathroom, Hamton washed his hands yet again, albeit with some disgust as the washing bowl had become murky and brown.

Hamton had cleaned hundreds of things in the past to know how dirt and dust behaved, but this cave alone changed everything. Dust was everywhere — even the ceiling. The stone walls of the cave were freezing, and so Hamton's bare hands went numb as he wiped it with his lemon-scented rags. It was a relief, then, to have the kitchen be the last place he dusted, where the fire's slow wavering flames warmed him as he moved around the room, cleaning the stone countertops.

Feeling uncomfortable from all the dust that covered his overalls, Hamton approached Taz on his stone couch and said, quite out breath, "All . . . all finished."

Professor Taz spluttered a delighted mouthful of what Hamton assumed was a "thank you." The wild and crazy teacher whirled around into a tornado and, sounding like a high-powered drill, spun out of the room. And this time, instead of dust, an old ten dollar bill flew out of the little brown tornado. Hamton pocketed it, grabbed his duffel bag, and drudged straight out of the cave.

Weak-legged, clothes filthy, nose burning from dust specks, and now back out in the cold afternoon smelling like lemons, Hamton tiredly pulled the list of addresses out from his grimy pocket.

He gave a sigh of relief. There was only one house left, and regardless of how tired he was, Hamton pressed on towards the last stop of this very long day of cleaning.

Turning a corner, Hamton's sight drifted off to the side and down the neighborhood street. What he saw over the buildings wiped away his exhaustion.

The Acme Loo clock tower now read 2:45.

Hamton quickened his stride down the sidewalk. He must hurry, he told himself. He _will_ hang out with his friends this evening. He _will_ make it to the Mall in time!

And within ten minutes, Hamton had reached the last house, and to his immense delight, it looked perfectly normal (and, for some reason, familiar). There was nothing about the snow-covered roof or the flowery-curtained windows to suggest there was anything out of the ordinary. Remembering back to when he scheduled the cleaning, Hamton imagined the person talking to be an elderly woman, who sounded somewhat like Granny.

Hamton moved down the house's walkway. He passed several snowy lumps lying motionless in the front yard, including one that sat beside the door. He knocked and waited.

Again, he looked off to the side at the pile of snow jutting up, and this time caught sight of a tiny glint. Curious, ignoring the footsteps on the other side of the door, Hamton leaned forward and, with his bare hand (still a little dirty from Professor Taz's house) brushed away the snow and felt something even colder beneath it.

Hamton's breath froze in his throat.

It was a cage, and from the looks of it, the creature it had once imprisoned clawed the bars apart.

Hamton's heart started to beat frantically. He looked to the other lumps in the yard. Were they cages too? If they were . . . then that meant —

The door opened and Hamton was greeted by a delighted, girlish squeal, coming from a girl with bright orange hair and a skull-shaped bow. Aghast, he dropped his duffel bag.

"Hello, cute, Piggy-wiggy! I thought you'd never get here!"

And before Hamton's wits could return and help him run away, Elmyra Duff had scooped him up in a vice-tight hug and dragged him into her house.

* * *

"I've been waiting all day for you, Mr. Piggy," said Elmyra happily, her arms squeezing all the oxygen out of Hamton.

She carried him through the living room, and Hamton became, at once, even more frightened. It was as though he had entered a dungeon crossed with a flowery animal shelter: pictures of flowers and cute critters clashed with steel cages hanging from chains in the ceiling. Most of the cages were empty, but some, to Hamton's horror, still had small skeletons hanging limp from the bars. Bags of animal feed were piled against the walls, a stack of feeding bowls stood beside a bookshelf, and laying in a laundry basket were a bunch of bibs and other small clothes.

Hamton wriggled from Elmyra's ironclad grip just enough to speak.

"Uh, Elmyra?" he asked uneasily, fighting to free his other arm. "Is there anything you need me to clean?"

"Clean?" asked Elmyra, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah . . ." Hamton repeated, starting to feel uneasy. "You called because of my offer to clean your house?"

Elmyra let out a fit of giggles. "Oh, silly Oinky-oink. I had to say _something_ to get you to come over. I've always wanted a cute piggy to play with, and I was so lucky to find a flier at school that said you were offering to clean people's houses. I just had to take my chance when I saw it."

"So . . . there's nothing you want me to clean?" Hamton asked, feeling both disturbed and annoyed.

"Nope," she beamed. "Now come on, Mr. Cutey Piggy-Wiggy. Auntie Elmyra's going to feed you up."

She carried him into the kitchen. Hamton continued to struggle against the girl's inhuman strength. It didn't matter that food was being offered; Hamton, like any animal-themed Toon with common sense, wanted nothing more than to escape. As well-meaning as Elmyra may be, her history with cute critters had become infamous throughout Acme Acres. To go into her house was about as smart as stepping into a pit full of bear traps.

 _I can't believe I was tricked like this!_ Hamton thought, trying to worm his way out from Elmyra's arms. _She sounded so convincing on the phone, too! Ugh . . . I guess it's my fault for not recognizing the place. I knew it looked familiar!_

Coming out of this mental self-criticism, Hamton found himself bound to a kitchen chair. The ropes wrapped around his body were just as tight as Elmyra's hugs, and speaking of whom. . .

"You must be hungry, Mr. Piggy," said Elmyra, sniffing the air. "You smell like lemons."

"It's disinfectant," Hamton answered, struggling with the ropes taut around his wrists. "Look, Elmyra, I'm not feeling very hungry," he lied, "so if you could just —"

"Oh, don't be shy," Elmyra cooed with a smile and hug. "Every piggy worth his snout is hungry, and I have something nice and tasty in the oven just for you."

At that very moment, a buzzer went off.

"Ooooh! It's done!" Elmyra skipped merrily to the oven while Hamton strained to loosen the ropes tied around himself and the chair. Meanwhile, his nose detected something unpleasant. Whatever Elmyra had made, it smelled like it was smoldering, and he was in no mood to stick around and taste it.

Elmyra started to hum a cheery, improvised tune while she put something on a plate. Hamton, bound tightly, grunted as he tried to wiggle his arms to give the ropes some slack; and, up on the wall, there came another sound.

A wall clock chimed once, twice, three times. 3:00.

Hamton eyed the timepiece intently. He had only one hour left to meet his friends at the Mall.

Gritting his teeth, he wriggled his wrists between the ropes more violently, trying to tug his arms upward. But just as he found some slack, Elmyra dropped something heavy onto the table in front of him, something brown and burnt.

"Gobble up, Piggy," said Elmyra, beaming. "I made it with love."

" _Love_?" said Hamton incredulously, aghast at what was laid before him. It was a mud pie, and from the looks of it, Elmyra had dug it straight out of her backyard — a frozen brown clump with dried grass on top. In what way was love used as an ingredient here?

"Oh, come on," Elmyra encouraged. "All pigs like mud. I see them play in it all the time."

"I hate mud!" Hamton exclaimed, struggling in his seat. "Elmyra, I don't have time for this! I have to go home!"

"Ah, but you just got here," said Elmyra with a pout. She threw her arms again around Hamton. "Why not stay and let me squeeze you for a while?"

"I'm . . . in . . . a hurry!" Hamton said through gritted teeth, struggling more furiously.

With a one final strong tug, he felt his hand come loose. Freeing the other hand, Hamton pulled his arms up and, with all his strength, shoved Elmyra back far enough to jump loose. He fell to the floor on all fours, pushed himself back up, and, without wasting a second, ran pell-mell for the door.

In a colored blur, Elmyra shot right in front of him, her arms outstretched, blocking his escape. "No need to go to market, little piggy. Stay home with me! I'll cuddle you and squeeze you and make you all the roast beef you — HEY!"

Hamton whipped around and rushed up the stairs. Hectically, he glanced from place to place, his mind frantic to find another way out. He could hear Elmyra's footsteps rushing up the stairs after him; he knew he had only seconds to make a decision, knew that if Elmyra caught him again. . . .

Out of the corner of his eye, Hamton caught a glint of afternoon sunlight sparkling from an open room. Hamton turned and saw it was coming through a window.

The idea that formed in his head was a desperate one, considering he was up on the second floor, but he had to get out of this house. And with the animal-obsessed girl coming up the stairs, he knew he had only seconds to act.

Hamton darted into the room and wrenched up on the window. It didn't budge. He fumbled to loosen the lock, but it too was stiff. He pulled and tugged with all his might, but the latch wouldn't come loose.

"Uh-Uh-Uh, Mr. Piggy," came the sing-song voice of Elmyra from behind. She was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and shiny like a demented lady. "I glued all the windows shut a long time ago. I've had too many creatures leave without saying goodbye that way. But not today . . . hehehe!"

She hurried forward and leapt straight at Hamton. Hamton dodged to the side just in time as Elmyra collided into the wall underneath the window. Hamton hurried out of the room and back down the stairs, but, again, Elmyra zipped in front of the door, her arms outstretched, ready to hug Hamton until his ribs broke.

Hamton darted back to the kitchen and stopped by the table. The mud pie was still smoking in its charred dish.

Elmyra entered, giggly. "Nowhere to run, Mr. Piggy. Now why don't you sit down and eat your pie before it —"

SPLAT!

Elmyra was cut off as the mud pie hit her in the face. The frozen shell had broken and the warm mud oozed onto her head as she fell to the floor in a daze. A few twittering birds actually materialized out of thin air and circled over her head.

Hamton stared in surprise by his sudden action; it had happened purely on instinct. He stepped closer to see if Elmyra was all right. With immense relief, he saw that she was still quite conscious — just a little caught off guard and spirally-eyed. But then she steadily pressed her hands to the floor to push herself up, and Hamton knew he had only one chance.

Forgetting how tired he was from a whole day of cleaning, Hamton jumped over Elmyra, ran out of the kitchen, yanked the front door open, and sprinted straight out of the house. He swiped the handles of his duffel bag off the snowy ground and rushed out into the neighborhood, running without cease for home, the cold air filling him as he breathed.

 _$1130 to go — 18 Days until Dec.24th_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome.**


	14. Yesterday and Today

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

 _Yesterday and Today_

 _~Dec. 6th and Dec. 7th~_

Hamton laid sprawled on his hands and knees at the foot of his couch, wheezing painfully from the cold he had just left. But despite the pain, so heavy in his chest and sides, he still had the strength to smile. After so many hours away, it was good to be back in his own house — warm, familiar, comfortable, and clean enough for his own liking.

Hamton took a deep inhale through his nose and winced at the strong smell of lemons coming from the filthy overalls under his coat. He stood up, wincing from his sore legs, and glanced tiredly up at the living room's wall clock. His eyes went wide.

It was 3:30.

In that moment, the great weight on his lungs disappeared as Hamton's mind shot back to that morning, to when he and Babs had talked on the phone. . . .

It was enough for Hamton to push aside his tiredness and his desire to lay down and sleep (as he happily would have done on this very carpet). Knowing he had precious little time, he rushed to the bathroom. The shower's hot water was bliss against his skin, and the soft scent of soap replaced that of the harsh lemon disinfectant. After drying himself off, Hamton pulled on a fresh pair of overalls. He felt renewed, his energy returning faster than it ever could have through relaxing.

Looking over at his bed, the alarm clock read 3:40. He still had enough time for one last thing.

Hamton rushed back to the living room, picked his coat up off the floor, pulled it back on and grabbed the money he had earned from out of its pocket. In his room, he subtracted the $70 from the list on his desk.

$1200

-$70

(cleaned 7 houses, $10 ea.)

$1130

Placing his pencil down, Hamton checked himself over. He looked all right, he thought, at least well enough for his friends. It wasn't like he was going out on a date (despite the fact that Fifi would be present. . .)

Hamton paused at this thought and needlessly combed his hand over his bald head. He then grabbed a little spending money out from his desk drawer and deposited the day's profit into his dresser. Locking the front door, he headed straight towards the city, trying to ignore how sore his legs felt.

* * *

Staggering, out of breath from running through his neighborhood and back into the city, Hamton reached the Acme Mall just as the clock tower struck 4:00. His lungs felt drained and his face was cold, and though his ears were throbbing slightly under his hat, he still managed to hear his friends calling his name from the Mall's entrance.

"Hey, Hamton! Glad you made it," Buster said with satisfaction. "How was your cleaning?"

"I'll . . . tell you all . . . about it . . . inside. . . ." Hamton said through ragged breath, clutching the stitch in his side with his cold, bare hands.

The six of them walked in. The Mall was beautifully warm with many shoppers already starting on some early Christmas shopping.

"You cleaned _Elmyra's_ house?" Plucky asked incredulously a few minutes later after Hamton explained his day. "Hamton, I think all that lemon disinfectant must've messed up your brain. Seriously, _what_ were you thinking?"

"I didn't _know_ it was Elmyra, okay?" Hamton said wearily, wishing he could forget the whole thing. "When she called, she sounded like an old lady. I only realized whose house it was after I saw the empty cage buried under the snow by her door, and by then she grabbed me. After that . . . well, let's just say I have Elmyra's poor cooking to thank for my escape."

"I believe you there, Hamton," said Buster. "I did most of the baking yesterday in Exploding Cakes. Elmyra can't tell the difference between cocoa powder and itching powder."

"Still," said Plucky, sniffing the air as the six of them passed a group of shoppers, "you must've used a lot of disinfectant, Hamton. Your coat is ripe with lemons."

Hamton took a small sniff of his winter coat, then groaned. Plucky was quite right; though faint, the pungent lemon scent was still noticeable to those close by. Hamton hadn't smelt it when he was outside due to the fact that he had been in a hurry.

"It must've been from my overalls," Hamton said. "They were soaked and the cleaner must've seeped into the coat's fabric."

"Ah, don't worry," said Shirley with a wave of her hand, "it's not a bad smell. Lemons are, like, great for the sinuses, plus they make for a refreshing meditation — when they're not overwhelming, that is."

"And _I_ would be. . .?" asked Hamton, an eyebrow raised.

". . .Like, totally overwhelming. Sorry."

Hamton deadpanned.

"I know a place zat can help, Hamton," Fifi said. "Oh! Here we are."

They all came to a halt. Fifi had led them to a store that Hamton and the others never entered before. Unlike most of the other stores, this one had two sets of doors: one for the outside, in which you entered a small entryway, and another that opened into the actual shop. The overhead sign read:

 _ **Dr. Olfactor's Aroma Factory**_

"Zis store houses just about every scent you can think of," Fifi told them proudly. "Ze perfume is not bad, but it is ze candles that really, how you say, 'lift you off your feet.'"

Babs looked curiously up at the store's sign. "Hmm . . . I wonder why we've never noticed this shop before..."

"Must've been retconned at the last moment," Buster implied. "Or perhaps it was just never been mentioned before on _Tiny Toons_."

Opening the outer doors, Hamton could already detect a dozen different smells. Stepping inside through the second doors, however, he and his friends (minus Fifi) felt their heads spin as a tidal wave of scents flooded their nostrils.

"Oh, sorry," said Fifi, grinning sheepishly. "I forgot to mention, ze first time in zis shop can be a tad overwhelming."

"I'll say!" Plucky exclaimed, whose eyes rolled into their sockets, right before he fell to the floor.

"Oh, don't be a drama queen, Plucky," Babs said with her arms crossed. "It's not _that_ bad."

And indeed, Babs had a point after the first few seconds. The shop, in Hamton's opinion, became quite comfortable to the senses once a person looked around (and learned to breath mostly through their mouth).

The shelves were stocked with assorted air fresheners, both for cars and rooms. Colorful herbal scented candles lined the walkways with every aroma imaginable, including blueberry pie, Queen's gown, and even swamp grass. Various perfumes were also available, though none of them, Hamton saw, included Du Coeur. And lastly, over at the store's far end — the only spot that was bare of products — there was a space of sorts: a ventilated glass box where one could sample the different air fresheners without the other smells interfering.

"Zis way, Hamton," said Fifi. She took him by the hand and lead him over to the testing area.

Hamton's cheeks went red; the soft fingers holding his hand felt like Heaven.

Fifi must've visited this shop many times before, Hamton thought. She ran her soft, purple-furred finger down the line of free-sample air fresheners without needing to read them and, within a few seconds, had picked out an orange and yellow spray can from amongst the hundreds. Then, with just a few sprays, Hamton's coat went from smelling like lemon juice to fresh autumn leaves (with, perhaps, a pinch of pumpkin spice). Of the two, this scent was _far_ more pleasant.

"Thanks, Fifi," said Hamton, his cheeks still burning.

"My pleasure, Hamton," Fifi replied. "A good scent can go a long way, just as a bad scent can, how you say, 'make you go south'. Being a skunk, I speak from experience."

"Great," said Plucky with impatience. "And now that Hamton smells like a Thanksgiving wreath, can we _please_ go somewhere else? I think my bill's stopped working."

"Hang on a sec, Plucky," said Shirley. "I want to buy some incense sticks." She proceeded to the cashier, who had a clothes pin placed over his nose.

Shirley took a whiff of her purchase and beamed. " _Spirit Forest_. This should make my evening meditation, like, super interesting."

* * *

After leaving the Aroma Factory, Hamton and his friends spent the majority of their time browsing through the Mall's many different shops. Occasionally a shopper would stop and sniff the air before muttering something about autumn leaves, to which Hamton and Fifi both shared a private smile.

To prevent any complaints from Plucky, the six friends stopped first at Mind Controller, where they all took turns playing a new high-tech video game called "Dance Dance Revelation". At least, that's what they _think_ it was called; the price tag was placed over the last word. It proved to be pretty fun, stepping in beat to the music as rhythm arrows fell across the screen. Buster and Babs proved to be especially good, hardly missing a single note. Plucky and Shirley did okay, but occasionally fell out of sync. And Hamton and Fifi did fine, though Fifi, having not played a lot of video games, missed quite a few notes, and Hamton, not being a good dancer, found himself tripping over his feet every time the tempo sped up.

The next stop was in favor of the girls: a small but popular clothing outlet called Tracy's, where Babs, Shirley, and Fifi had fun checking out this year's pick in holiday dresses. Plucky twiddled away the time sitting by the door, his hand pressed to his bored face as his eyes wandered over everything for no more than five seconds. Buster, though not overly interested, complimented Babs on the dresses she showed to him, and spoke out suggestions occasionally. And Hamton was left to watch Fifi glance around at the many styles, imagining how she would look in them and finding that they all suited her marvelously. Though, of course, he lacked the courage to say this to her out loud.

By the time they left, — " _Finally_!" Plucky had said a little too loudly, much to Shirley's annoyance — the clocks read 6:00 and they all headed down to the food court for dinner.

Hamton paid for his meal with part of the fifteen dollars he still had left over from his parents' grocery check, so it didn't dip into the money he was saving up. This, combined with the deliciousness of cheesy pretzel bites, made the meal all the more enjoyable. And the impressions Babs did between bites also brought grins to the whole group, and even to the Mall-goers close enough to listen.

"Hey, everyone! I'm Montana Max!" Babs exclaimed in a flawless impersonation of Monty's loud, obnoxious voice. "I'm a buck-toothed, penny-pinching rich boy whose favorite hobby is making underwear out of my own cash!" There was a collective amount of laughter. "I have so much money, I could end world hunger in an hour. I would, that is, except the idea makes me laugh so hard, I go into a cash coma every time!"

By the end of the meal, Hamton was in such a good mood that he joined his friends onstage in the Mall's Karaoke Lounge where, together, the six of them sang "California Dreamin" by the Mamas and the Papas, in which they all received a cheerful applause.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: See bottom of chapter for work cited.**

Hamton was having such a good time that, even as the evening reached 8:00, he still wasn't the slightest bit tired from his long day of cleaning. The madness of it all now felt like a funny memory in the time he spent with his best friends.

These delightful hours at the Mall even made Hamton forget _why_ he had gone to the trouble of doing so much cleaning. That was, until the last stop before he and his friends went home. . . .

The Mall had half an hour left before all the stores closed at 9:00 and it was Fifi who suggested they have Shears be the last place to browse for the evening. A small twinge flickered in Hamton's stomach at this suggestion, and the events of his busy day slowly came into focus once more.

When they arrived outside the large glass doors, the six friends found the department store in a reasonably busy state. Hamton and the others passed a group of women adoring expensive jewelry, a group men were bickering while trying to find the best clip-on tie, and a child was whining for an expensive, albeit breakable toy. They moved on passed all the bustle and stopped at the store's center where the perfumes were displayed.

Fifi stepped forward and approached the glass case, behind which a beautiful, heart-shaped bottle stood for all to see.

"It is ze most popular brand in France right now," Fifi said eagerly. "I heard zey sold out every bottle in under a week, and Shamel is only bringing in a couple more for ze holidays."

She stepped back, glancing at the Du Coeur as though it were something both impressive as well as startling. "It looks like Shears is starting to sell out, too."

Stepping to get a closer look, Hamton saw that Fifi was correct. The case preserved for the Du Coeur was half empty since the last time he and his friends came here.

"I heard," said Fifi, "zat someone in Acme Acres actually managed to convince ze store to reserve a bottle, and zat's supposed to be impossible, as Du Coeur is in such high demand."

Fifi turned back to admire the bottle, and Hamton, directly behind her, glanced quickly over at Shirley, who returned his look with equal secrecy.

"Do you know what the perfume smells like, Fifi?" asked Babs. "I don't see a test card around anywhere."

"What it _smells_ like?" Fifi let out a small laugh. "Oh, no, no, Babs. Test cards are not allowed for Du Coeur. Zis perfume is so exclusive, Shamel actually convinced ze government to sign a law forbidding people to describe its scent."

"You're kidding," said Buster in disbelief. "How can they possibly enforce a law like that?"

"I do not know," said Fifi curiously. "Personally, I think zey are overreacting. Otherwise, zhough, nobody but zhose who _own_ ze perfume know ze scent."

"And all it takes to find out is every dollar, cent, and drop of sweat you have," said Plucky bluntly. "Honestly! I don't see how anyone can possibly afford it, even when it's on sale."

"Oh, indeed," said Fifi with a 'Le sigh'. "I, for one, find ze price outrageous. But . . . what it would be to have just one whiff of ze fragrance. . . ."

What it _would_ be like, Hamton had no idea. The only scents around him were autumn leaves from his coat, leather from nearby shoes and purses, and a variety of other perfumes, and yet somehow, Hamton didn't think any of them would equate to the mysterious aroma surely resting beneath the heart-shaped bottle's golden cap.

"You must really like the perfume, Fifi. . ." Hamton said off-handedly.

Not taking her eyes off the perfume, Fifi responded, "Oh, it is fascinating, 'tis true. But it is ze story behind its creation zat _truly_ makes it so special."

"The story?"

Taking a deep, passionate breath, Fifi began, "It was first thought up a few years ago in Europe by a perfumer who worked alongside another. Zey started just as friends and business partners, and zey both shared a deep passion for fragrance. Zey slaved together, day and night for years, pushing zheir skills and senses to ze limits, all to create one perfect aroma. Zey put all zheir hearts into zis one project, and in doing so," Fifi beamed, "zey found zheir hearts in each other. Zey created something more meaningful more zan any perfume. And when ze first bottle was finally finished, ze man used it to propose to ze woman. He hid ze wedding ring inside ze box."

Fifi let out a soft, "Le sigh. To think, ze creation of one little bottle was all it took for love to emerge. Zat is how ze perfume got its name and its shape. Ze idea and its creation came from 'ze heart'."

Fifi's eyes turned back to the perfume, eyeing it lovingly. Hamton's eyes, meanwhile, settled on Fifi. The sight of those bright amethyst eyes, even in the display case's reflective glass, was more beautiful than any of the jewelry for sale here, and they stuck with Hamton long after he and the others departed for home.

It was almost like those eyes had been whispering to him, prompting him in his mission. _"You are not going to let me down, are you? You want to be ze boyfriend I deserve, non?"_

Hamton let out a deep, slow exhale, his head bowed.

"Why can't these things ever be simple?"

* * *

( _December 7th_ )

Dropping his spoon into his cereal bowl with a clink, Hamton gave out a deep sigh. He was no longer hungry, but his attitude didn't improve with having a full stomach.

No matter how much Hamton tried, the only event his mind wanted to recall from yesterday was Fifi's look of longing and the passionate story of how the perfume came to be. She had spoken with such tenderness it was practically on grounds to be a serenade.

Hamton pressed his hands to his face. He was staring down at the kitchen table where the morning sunlight glimmered off a black and purple flier, advertising a picture of the purple, heart shaped Du Coeur perfume.

He picked up the flier and stared at it more intently, remembering Fifi's words about the famous perfume.

 _"...ze most popular brand in France right now..._

 _"...what it would be to have just one wiff of ze fragrance..."_

 _"...ze creation of one little bottle was all it took for love to emerge..."_

Hamton's insides felt constricted. A tender warmth and a dull chill were rolling around in his stomach, then jerking up into his heart, and finally crashing all together inside his brain, only to drop back down and start all over again.

He slapped the flier back onto the table. Resting one hand on his face, he tapped his finger on the bottle's picture where the golden cap was set. What the perfume smelt like — though he was curious — wasn't the question troubling Hamton.

No. The thing that bothered him was how on earth he was going to pay for it in time.

Just a few days ago, when he first made the decision to raise money for the perfume, Hamton had felt confident and hopeful. He had believed, honestly and truly, that he would, somehow, manage this insane mission. It really hadn't been a matter of "how?", but simply the idea of getting up and doing it. Just yesterday morning he happily walked out the door and cleaned _seven_ houses, believing that, with each dollar earned, he was that much closer to making Fifi happy. He was too caught up in daydreams of her to give a moment's thought to something as menial as time, or its habit of quickly sneaking up on you, especially while in a good mood.

Now, however, as the first week of December came to an end, Hamton felt a different feeling altogether: stress.

Pushing himself up from the kitchen table, Hamton grabbed the Du Coeur flier and strutted back to his bedroom. He sat down again at his desk and glanced at the paper where he had been subtracting his savings from the scratched out $1500 at the top.

The bottom number, which was his present goal, gave him no hope whatsoever:

 _$1500_  
 _-$155_  
 _$1345_  
 _-$60_  
 _$1285_  
 _-$35_  
 _$1250_  
 _-$50_  
 _$1200_  
 _-$70_  
 _$1130_

Grabbing the lunchbox from the bottom drawer in his dresser, Hamton pulled out all the money he managed to earn and counted it to make sure he did his math right.

In the course of only five days, Hamton had, so far, collected $370 — little more than one quarter of $1500.

 _Great_ , Hamton sighed with a shake of his head. _One quarter down, three more to go_.

With a feeling of dread, Hamton reached for the small calendar on his desk and counted the days until Dec.24th. It was 17 days away.

After five minutes of stressful configuring, Hamton dropped the pencil onto his desk and — yet again — pressed his hands to his face with a slight groan.

He just couldn't see any way around the issue. If he continued on as he did now — even if he were to work _every_ day until the 24th — Hamton knew he would still be a few hundred dollars shy. In fact, now that he remembered, he would only have until the 23rd to buy the perfume; Shirley's mental suggestion to have the store owners hold the perfume would only last until that date, so, in truth, he had even _less_ time.

Hamton couldn't fool himself: trying to raise that much money by then was next to impossible, even for a cartoon character.

He closed his eyes to dwell on this fact.

 _What am I going to do, Fifi?_

He thought back to two evenings ago. . . . He remembered how it felt as Fifi hugged him, had her cheek pressed against his . . . how it felt to see her smile at him when they had fun at the Mall, how it felt as she talked lovingly about the perfume behind glass.

And that feeling was the reason for it: the reminder Hamton needed.

Hamton stood up determinedly from his seat, grabbed several sheets of paper, and returned to the kitchen table where he spent the next thirty minutes scribbling out fliers written with large black words. They were essentially the same as the cleaning fliers he posted up at school, only these ones read:

 **Need help with a chore?**

 **Want an extra hand with a task?**

 **Call** **HAMTON J. PIG** **to schedule**

 _ **Price Upon Request**_

With an unpleasant thought about Elmyra and how she had tricked him into coming yesterday, Hamton added **"Name and Address Required"** at the bottom of each slip.

Then, with his hands full of fliers and a stapler, Hamton opened his front door and set off into the sunny morning, his determination leading him on.

* * *

There was no wind, no clouds to be seen, and the sun wasn't too bright — in all regards it was a perfect morning, despite the occasional chilly bite at Hamton's bare hands. His winter coat still had the scent of fresh autumn leaves, which made the walk towards the city pleasant. The winter air also held the wonderful scent of wood fireplaces, their chimney smoke fading into the cold air.

When he arrived in the city, Hamton spent an hour stapling fliers to wooden posts and asking the local businesses for permission to tape them in their windows. Since it was Sunday, most of the major places were closed, but Hamton figured those currently open, like the grocery store, coffee shops and restaurants, would do fine.

With the streets bare except for the occasional Sunday driver, Hamton reached Acme Looniveristy rather quickly and stapled the last of his fliers to the nearby posts. For those made of medal, he stuck the fliers down using some ACME Weather Resistant Sticky Tape (pretty convenient, huh?).

His work done, he took a short, relieved breath of winter air.

 _There,_ he thought, wiping his brow on his coat sleeve. _This should bring in a few more dollars . . . I hope._

He stared at the white fliers stuck to the posts and brick walls, their edges fidgeting in the soft breeze.

It'll help, Hamton told himself. It has to. . . .

Standing outside the school's entrance arch, Hamton turned and made to head on home. He still had to finish his homework for Professor Granny, plus there was his job in Wacky Land he had to go to in a few hours.

"Oh you, I wonder what insanity awaits me then. . ." Hamton muttered dully, not knowing whether to feel anxious or eager. Before he reached the end of the school's block, however, he stopped at the sound of voices nearby.

"No, no, Concord!" said a small, female voice irksomely. "The green are supposed to go with the red, not the white!"

Curious, Hamton trekked back to the school's towering arch. The only ones standing in view were the large statues of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, their mortar boards still topped with snow.

"Oh...um, uhhh, gee, uhhhh, sorry." The person who spoke had a voice so dopey, it was either on purpose or else had the most mellow voice box in all of creation. Hamton could also hear flapping, as well as footprints of someone walking in the snow. He stepped through the arch and looked around the corner.

There he found three students standing close to the school wall. Sweetie Bird, flapping silently in the air. The one whose flapping was louder, and who talked in a clueless voice, was Concord Condor, hovering clumsily in the air while holding a wrapped ring of Christmas lights. And, standing on the ground, silently reading from a clipboard, was Calamity Coyote.

 _What are they doing here on a Sunday?_ Hamton pondered. He walked towards them, crossing the snowy school yard. His footsteps alerted the two birds and the young genius.

"Oh, hey, Hamton," said Sweetie, landing on Calamity's head. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, just came to hang some fliers. Trying to make some extra money." Hamton held up the cold metal stapler for the others to see.

"Yeah, I think I remember Babs telling me something about that last week," said Sweetie. "Something about cleaning houses?"

"Yeah, I am," Hamton answered. "I've cleaned a few houses already, but I decided to go around and find other jobs, too. More variety, more chances to earn money, you know? Well, I'll let you guys get back to —" but as Hamton turned around to head home, Sweetie called out.

"Wait! Hamton, you said you're looking to make some money?"

Hamton looked back at her. "Yeah?"

Sweetie flew over with Calamity following. When she was a few feet in front from Hamton, Sweetie explained, "If you want to, Hamton, we could use your help."

While one of her pink wings remained flapping, Sweetie pointed her other in the direction of Concord, who was watching them with a half-awake, mellow glance. He gave Hamton a friendly wave, which too looked a little off-balanced.

"Principal Bugs asked for helpers in putting up Christmas lights around the school," explained Sweetie. "Normally he hires someone to come and do it, but he thought of having the students do it this year. He's even paying us for our assistance."

With a mournful sigh, she looked over her small, pink, feathered shoulder. "However . . . Concord, sadly, isn't the most coordinated person in the world to work with. But, if _you_ want to," she turned back to Hamton, "we'll gladly share some of our pay with you in exchange for help."

Calamity nodded in agreement.

Hamton, finding the convenience of the offer beyond what he could've expected, jumped onboard at once. "Yeah. Okay, sure. Where do I start?"

Delighted by this news, Sweetie and Calamity turned around and headed back towards Concord.

* * *

The next two hours of the morning passed by in a hurry. Working alongside Concord, Hamton followed Sweetie and Calamity's instructions on where to hang the strings of Christmas lights. It wasn't terribly difficult, except that every so often Concord would drop the string.

"Oh, uh, sorry, Hamton," Concord apologized after the string fell atop Hamton's head for the third time. "Butterfingers."

With Hamton on the ground and Concord gripping the wall's top, they progressed down the school yard. Sweetie hung back to give instructions.

"A little higher, Concord. Higher! Aaaaand, perfect! Okay, Hamton, that's far enough. Now hand it off to Concord again. How are we doing on string, Calamity?"

Calamity could be heard scribbling on his clipboard, making calculations of how much string would fit per area and how far apart they could be. If they were too close, they would run out of string before reaching the next side; if they were two far, the walls would look bare.

By the time 11:00 sounded from the clock tower, the four students had circled the entire front yard. Hamton stuffed his hands into his pockets and squeezed them, trying to warm them after two hours of holding lights.

"Okay, Calamity," said Sweetie, "let's see how they look."

Giving a thumbs-up, Calamity pulled a remote control from out of nowhere and pressed the button.

Though the sunlight made them hard to see, Hamton could just make out a thousand tiny bulbs, spread out along the walls, illuminated in many colors. And the walls weren't the only things that had been bedecked with bows of holly. The statues of Bugs and Daffy looked like they and their graduation gowns had contracted a multi-colored pox.

"They'll look really pretty at night," said Sweetie. "Okay, boys, I think that'll be enough for today."

Calamity pressed the button again and the faint colored dots disappeared.

Concord reached over and shook Hamton's hand.

"Thanks a bunch, Hamton," he said in his goofy tone. "I would've kept us out here much longer if you hadn't come along."

"No problem," said Hamton modestly. "Happy to help."

"Thanks a bunch," said Sweetie, flying up in front of Hamton. "We won't get paid until tomorrow. Hope that's okay."

"Sure, I'm no hurry," said Hamton, even though his mission said otherwise.

"Um, uh, that'll be, uh, fifteen dollars you're getting, Hamton," said Concord. "Hope you don't mind, but I'm splitting it from my own pay. I feel that's fair, since you only did half the work with hanging the lights."

"That's perfectly fine," said Hamton gratefully. "Fifteen dollars sounds great."

"If you want, Hamton," said Sweetie, "we could also use some help decorating the school's arch and hallways. We'll be doing them after school for the next two days."

"That sounds great! Count me in!" said Hamton, giving a thumbs up. "So, I'll see you all after school tomorrow?"

"Yes, siree!" said Sweetie.

"Yep, yep," Concord added.

Calamity held up a wooden sign that read, "You got it!"

"Okay, then. I'll see you all later. Thanks again for the job!" And with that, Hamton took his leave, grabbing his stapler as he left the school yard, happiness fueling his spirit.

* * *

 **WORK CITED**

The Mamas and the Papas. "California Dreamin'." _If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears_ , Dunhill Records, 1965.

* * *

 **Hamton's luck seems to have picked up, but just you wait. Next chapter, something's going to happen that will change his mission for the whole story.**

 **All comments, positive or negative, are welcome.**


	15. A Lending Paw

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

 _A Lending Paw_

Dec. 7th

It's a strange thing, how events have a way of playing themselves out. Just moments after putting up fliers in search of jobs to raise money, Hamton had made fifteen dollars and was scheduled for two more jobs hanging up Christmas lights. Hamton didn't know whether to call it fate, perfect timing, or just pure luck, but whatever it was, it was another step towards his goal, and that made him happy.

He crossed the city blocks with a smile on his face, feeling far more hopeful than he had back home. The tall buildings stood around him, their gray, black, and white colors alighted from the start of the afternoon, their windows sparkling from the high-reaching sun. There weren't many cars driving on the street this Sunday, and so Hamton took delight in each crunch, thunt, and skip his footsteps made in the snow as though they were a strange sort of music. He could still faintly smell the leafy aroma on his winter coat from his visit at the Mall yesterday, which brought up thoughts of Fifi. And, to top it all off, it wasn't even cold out. It may have even reached into the low thirties — a massive improvement over the last couple of days.

Everything felt perfect. The day was brimming with opportunity. Hamton had two more jobs to look forward to and he had one in a few hours. He could already feel that bottle of Du Coeur in his hands (regardless that both were currently stuffed in his pockets).

Hamton must've daydreamed for a lot longer than he realized, because when he snapped back to attention, he turned and found himself standing outside the Acme City Dump.

He froze, his eyes immediately drawn through the entrance in the fence and past the broken cars and automotive scraps. The pink Cadillac was sitting in the snow at the end of a shoveled-out path. Through the side windows, Hamton thought he saw a swish of purple and white.

Feeling his cheeks burn, Hamton darted forward down the road and over onto the next block, his heart beating very fast.

Stopping by the entrance to an alley, located between two rundown apartment buildings, Hamton rubbed his hands against his warm cheeks.

Why did he run, he asked himself harshly? What was the point? It was only Fifi. There was nothing awkward about the situation. He was just walking home and passed by where she lived. And anyway, she didn't even notice him. So why did he choose to run?

Annoyed, Hamton shook his head, feeling his happiness ebb away.

This had to stop, he told himself. If we wanted to be more than just friends with Fifi, he had to get over this shyness of his. A bottle of Du Coeur won't better his chances if he didn't learn to stand in Fifi's presence with a straight face. It shouldn't be that hard; all he had to do was be himself, and talk and breathe . . . and not go red . . . or faint. . . .

But that, thankfully, was for another day.

 _Still_ , his mind said bluntly, _it'll come eventually. Will you be ready when it does?_

Hamton's stomach churned uncomfortably.

With a sigh, he gazed over to the Acme Loo clock tower and decided he better head home and have lunch before going to Wackyland. But before he could take a single step down the sidewalk, his attention was shaken by a loud, metallic CRASH.

For a startled moment, Hamton thought it came the from the Dump. But, judging from where the sound originated, it couldn't have. The noise had been close and the Dump was a whole block away. Hamton turned and faced the merging point of the two old buildings next to him. The crash, whatever it was, had come from the alleyway.

Curious, Hamton walked into the narrow space and saw that a metal trashcan had fallen over onto the snowy ground, and there, lying dizzy in a heap of frosted garbage, was a shaggy blue cat. His long tail was streamline with a white bandage wrapped near the end, and one of his pointed ears was tattered with a small piece missing, almost as though it had been the victim of a very poor piercing. One of his hand-like paws was pressed to his furry head, his eyes spinning slowly in their sockets.

"Furrball?" said Hamton. He stepped closer. "You okay?"

"Meow?"

The cat's eyes stopped spinning and darted over at Hamton, surprised to see him there.

"Here, hold on." Hamton walked over, reached out and grabbed Furrball's forearm, pulling him back to his feet. His fur was very cold.

"What were you doing, Furrball?"

Shrugging modestly, Furrball turned back to the garbage he had fallen in and began rummaging through it again, tossing aside frosted wrappers, frozen paper towels, and a few pieces of stale food to which Furrball gave a curious sniff.

Feeling a little grossed out by the fact that Furrball was touching garbage with his bare paws, Hamton looked down the alleyway.

It was remarkably free of snow. Most of the other alleys Hamton passed by in the city were piled up so that they formed short, white walls. But _this_ alley had clearly been shoveled out and trekked on many times. The footprints on the ground all belonging to a cat — a cartoon cat, judging by the larger size.

Hamton also noticed a rather large cardboard box farther down. It was big enough to fit a refrigerator and had its flap down on the end so that it looked like a door. A couple feet away from the box there was what looked like a small, makeshift campfire — a dark circle with burnt bits of wood centered around a circle of tin cans. And not too far from that was a large pile of discarded newspapers and small pieces of woods, perhaps meant to be used as kindling for the fire.

Looking back to Furrball who was still searching intently through the trash, Hamton felt his stomach become emptier than before, and not because he was hungry.

A box big enough for Hamton to crawl in . . . the small makeshift campfire . . . the very fact that Furrball was rummaging for food in trashcans. . . . It all added up to one very obvious, very sad answer, one that struck deep at Hamton's center and left him feeling numb.

He knew he could just walk away and leave Furrball to his business. He could just go home and go about _his_ business. But . . . no. Hamton shook his head. There was no way he could allow that; the animators had drawn him with too big of a conscience.

There was only one thing for him to do.

Swallowing his breath, Hamton gripped his hands together, and said, "Uh . . . Furrball?"

The cat didn't look up from the trash he was sifting through, but he did mutter, "Hmm?" in a way that came out as a muffled meow.

"Would you . . . uh . . . ?" Hamton hesitated. Why on earth did this feel so awkward? "Would you like to . . . come and join me for some lunch?"

The word seemed to hit Furrball like a slap. He looked up from the litter and stared at Hamton as though he couldn't possibly believe his ears.

"I mean it," said Hamton honestly. "That is, if you would like to come over . . ."

* * *

The first thing Hamton did when he arrived home with Furrball was ask the latter to wash his hands. Besides digging around in garbage, Hamton could only imagine what else Furrball's hands might have touched.

Furrball more than happily did as he was asked while Hamton put together some sandwiches with a side of chips and juice. Seeing as Furrball was a cat, Hamton made sure that one of the sandwiches was tuna. He knew perfectly well that Furrball had a deep love for fish; Hamton had spotted several discarded fish bones near the campfire back in the alley.

The two teenage Toons ate in silence. Furrball took a ravenous first bite out of his sandwich as though it had been a million years since he last tasted anything. Upon noticing Hamton's startled, full-mouthed look, however, he ate more calmly. Despite this slower chewing, however, Hamton could still see the look of rapture in Furrball's eyes every time he took a bite of the tuna, celery, and onion on wheat. It made Hamton feel less hungry than usual. . . .

By the time they finished eating (Furrball having licked his plate clean), the time on the clock read 12:15. Seeing as how Wackyland was on the other side of Acme Acres, Hamton decided he should probably head out and get there early. So, grabbing his duffel bag full of cleaning supplies, he headed to the door. Furrball, seeing Hamton don his winter coat, took this as a sign that it was time to leave.

With a friendly handshake, Furrball gave Hamton a grateful smile and a pat on the shoulder. Then, with a brief kitty-like sigh, he stepped out of the warm house and back into the mildly cool afternoon.

Again, Hamton's brain went into overdrive. Every part of him was yelling to stop Furrball before he got too far away.

A few seconds strained hesitation, and then —

"Hey, Furrball!"

The blue cat stopped and turned around, his expression curious.

"I don't suppose you have anything planned for the day?" Hamton asked. "I'm heading over to Wackyland to do some chores and make a little money. If you're interested and would like to help, I'd be glad to split what I make with you."

Everything fell into silence. Hamton felt awkward at how sudden he made the offer. He wasn't even quite sure why he was doing it, but something kept nudging him to offer Furrball the chance to help.

Furrball stood on the doorstep for a good five seconds, staring at Hamton. Then, after appearing to think it through, he smiled and nodded.

"Okay," said Hamton, feeling quite relieved. "Would you like a coat? I have a spare."

Furrball turned to look back outside. He held up his furred hand in the air and went still. After a few seconds, he looked back at Hamton and waved his hand, looking content.

"The weather's fine enough to go without one?" asked Hamton. "You sure?"

Furrball nodded.

"Well, uh . . . okay, then. Let's go."

* * *

Neither Hamton nor Furrball spoke on their way to the bridge leading to Wackyland. Every other minute, Hamton's eyes would shift towards the blue cat who kept his gaze down at the snowy ground while occasionally looking up at Hamton. It was impossible to say who looked or felt more awkward.

Hamton supposed Furrball was quiet mainly due to being asked to help so suddenly, though he certainly didn't look unhappy at the offer. He was going to paid for helping, after all. Still . . . there was a certain air about him tagging along that made this whole job seem a lot heavier than was to be expected.

Hamton, meanwhile, was silent for a whole other reason. He kept thinking about what would happen once the job was over and he and Furrball both headed back. Hamton remembered the small alley where he found Furrball rummaging. The garbage, the campfire, the cardboard box large enough to crawl in. . . .

 _What should I do_? he thought worriedly.

When they finally reached the point in the forest where the cliffs came to a deep drop, Hamton and Furrball stopped beside an old, rundown tollbooth. Its boards were weathered and the triangular roof had a good few inches of white snow piled on top. As usual, there was no person working the booth, but, then again, nobody ever had, even back in the days of _Tiny Toons_. The bar was down and blocking the way forward, though with more than enough space to walk under.

The two boys gave off a shiver. Being this high up, the cold feeling of winter returned with a harsh entry, the wind whistling along the crevasse below. The bridge lay before them, and above its entrance a battered sign read: WACKYLAND. Hamton also noted the word DANGER hanging lopsided off the sign.

The two boys glanced uneasily at the path ahead, then at each other. Hamton was starting to feel guilty in asking Furrball to come along.

"You . . . you okay, Furrball?"

The cat gave a shaky nod.

"Me too. . ." Trying to feel braver than he felt, Hamton let out a slow exhale. "Let's go. . ."

Together, the two boys ducked under the tollbooth's bar and set foot onto the bridge, which was free of snow. They started their way forward, and with each step taken, Hamton felt as though he was leaving the planet Earth behind.

It was a strange sensation, walking on this bridge. It rose and fell, it turned and curved, it changed from bricks to a black-and-white checked pattern, then twisted upside down and lead straight into a large hole suspended in midair like a cave.

For a brief moment, Hamton could've sworn he wasn't walking on anything at all; he felt fifty pounds lighter. Then, before he knew it, the whole world faded.

Furrball let out a cat-like shriek and Hamton felt the nonexistent hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But then, just as quickly as it went, the world reappeared and their feet touched solid ground.

The first thing Hamton took note of was that it was no longer cold. On the contrary — the seasons may have changed right from winter to summer; the temperature was nearly perfect, yet, for some reason, Hamton didn't feel hot in either his winter coat or hat. But this change in weather was nothing compared to where Hamton and Furrball found themselves.

They looked around, wide-eyed and speechless. It was as though they had walked into a crazed mixture of surreal paintings. The landscape was completely flat. There were no trees or buildings or mountains to block the horizon which seemed to stretch on forever. Instead, there were a number of bizarre features and landmarks: a pyramid with an eye in its center, a giant high-heeled shoe with its stiletto sticking fifty feet off the ground, a statue buried from the waist up, and, over by an isolated seashore, there were a number of seashells selling seashells to the Cs coming and going out of the sea.

Hamton could've stared at this insanity for a lot longer, but turned around when he felt a light tapping on his shoulder.

"Yoo-hoo!"

Hamton and Furrball jumped with a start. There, looking as care-free as ever, his pink cocktail umbrella sticking out of his head, was Gogo Dodo.

"'Ello, Piggy," said Gogo in a British accent. "And good morrow to you, Mousier Cat of ze Alley."

"Uh . . . hey, Gogo. . ." said Hamton. Unable to help himself, his eyes trailed again to the surreality of the land.

"Can't take your eyes off the place, can ya?" said Gogo in his normal voice. "I know I can't," and his tone suddenly sounded annoyed. "I mean, just look at it all!" To Hamton's growing surprise, Gogo pointed in not one, not two, but six different directions as four extra arms popped out from his chest.

"Just look at it all! Isn't it just bizarre?"

Hamton had no clue where or what Gogo was referring; the whole place seeped with the term 'bizarre'. "Uh . . . yeah. Very . . . uh, disorganized."

"Awww, you're too kind." Gogo waved his six arms in modesty, then pulled four back in, leaving his original two. "But really, Hamton. You can hardly call this place festive."

Furrball, sharing Hamton's confusion, scratched his head and meowed, "Huh?"

"Uh, _hellooooooooo_?" Gogo said, standing on tip toe, his eyes shooting out to both Hamton and Furrball. "The holidays are almost here and this place is totally bland! And in Wackyland, bland is a no go for a Dodo. Why, there's not even any snow! Don't tell me you two haven't noticed."

"Uh . . . sure, we noticed. No snow." Hamton glanced around, not seeing any spot of the white stuff anywhere. Even if there had been, it would've been easily overlooked in light of all the oddities covering the land. "So, Gogo," Hamton said, clearing his throat, "what do you want me to clean?"

"Well," said Gogo, "'clean' is such a vague term here in Wackyland, so by 'clean', I actually mean I want you to help me with a few things."

Hamton stared. "Like what?"

"Hold on, I have a list for you. Let me just get it out of my air pocket."

Gogo took a step back and raised his hand into the air above him. Out of nowhere, a zipper unraveled and Gogo reached inside of a small hole. He rummaged through the hole's rattling contents for a few seconds before pulling out what appeared to be a rolled-up poster, clenched in his hand.

"Wha-what was that?" spluttered Hamton, pointing dumbfoundedly at the hole now hanging in midair.

"I told you already, it's my air pocket," said Gogo. "You got to listen better, Hamton. Anyway, here's the things I want done around here." He handed Hamton the large rolled up paper. "If you have any questions about what to do, don't bother asking. In Wackyland, there really isn't a right or wrong way to do anything. Anyway or no way, your way, my way, or the freeway — whichever you chose, just do it and go with the flow. Got it?"

"Uh . . ."

"Great! See you both later!"

Smiling calmly and quite contentedly, Gogo then jumped into a rowboat sitting in a river that surely hadn't been there a moment ago and rowed off downstream, singing, "Vo-do-dee-oh! Vo-do-dee-oh!"

Standing there, watching Gogo shrink down the stream in his boat, Hamton looked back to Furrball and could tell that he was just as weirded out by this place as he was.

Taking a deep breath, not sure if he was prepared for what Gogo wanted done, Hamton unfurled the poster-sized list and laid it down on the ground. The writing inside was very large:

 _Things 2 Do_

 _~Deck the Halls_

 _~Trim the Trees_

 _~String the Lights_

 _~Push out the Hum-Bugs_

 _~Hang the Mistletoes_

Hamton and Furrball stared, surprised by the normality of the list.

"Huh. . ." said Hamton, feeling relieved. "Well, these don't sound so bad. Where do you think we should start?"

Furrball pointed at the first chore: Deck the Halls.

"Okay. Um . . ." Hamton looked around the vast crazy plain, realizing something important he forgot to ask Gogo. "Where are we supposed to go?"

The instant this question was asked, the ground beneath Hamton and Furrball changed in appearance. The surface now resembled an asphalt road with arrows pointing off to the left, farther into Wackyland.

"Well, that's convenient," said Hamton, eyeing the ground. "I guess this must be a road map."

Off in the distance somewhere, a rimshot sounded

With the arrows to guide them, Hamton and Furrball set off, wondering silently what awaited them at the end and how many more puns they would have to endure.

* * *

By the time he and Furrball finished the first job on the list, Hamton was regretting that he ever thought, for even a second, that any of the tasks Gogo set for them would be normal. In Wackyland, there was no such word.

Hamton and Furrball had reached the last arrow imprinted on the "road map" and, when they looked up, their curiosity turned to outright bafflement. What they were looking at was hard to describe.

They were standing in front of what appeared to be a dozen rows of large rectangular tunnels, fixed with lightbulbs and surreal paintings on the walls. They were hallways, stretching in all directions as though they had been carved right out of a house. And laying off to the side of these halls were a mass assortment of decks — fully built wooden decks that one would find on the side of a house. And beside these decks were a box of hammers and a neatly stacked pile of over a hundred-bagillion nails.

Hamton, his mouth hanging open, looked back down at the list Gogo had given him.

"'Deck the halls' . . ." he read. He looked slowly back up to the decks, then to the halls, then back down at the list. "Never thought that could be so literal."

From the box, he picked up two claw hammers and passed one to Furrball. The cat took it, looking as bewildered as Hamton felt.

"So . . ." Hamton said unsurely. "Where do you think we should start?"

Furrball shrugged.

Without having the slightest idea of what he was doing, Hamton approached the first deck, which was oak brown and sported a full set of patio furniture (which, despite the way the deck was leaning, did not fall off).

Hamton looked from it to the hall and back again. What on Earth was he supposed to do? What, did Gogo think Hamton could just pick up a two-ton deck and nail it to the hallway?

He looked over to Furrball to ask if he had any ideas, but before he could voice a word, Hamton's jaw dropped.

Furrball was holding a ten-yard porch deck over his head . . . doing so with just one hand. He smiled in amazement at his feat and flexed his arm, showing off his tube-shaped bicep.

Curious, Hamton looked back to the enormous deck lying beside him, grabbed hold of a wooden support beam and tried to lift it. With barely any effort, he brought up the entire deck and waved it around. Its texture felt like wood, but it weighed no more than if it were made of Styrofoam.

With a laugh, Hamton walked over to the first hall and held the deck in place. Furrball fetched some nails and started hammering the deck in every place he could find. Then, gently letting go, Hamton stepped back and stared in astonishment. The deck, which was so oddly disproportioned to the hallway, stuck to the side and did not budge. With a satisfied grin, Hamton grabbed the next deck with Furrball right behind him, hammer and nails ready to go. In under five minutes, every hall had several decks jutting out at the top and sides like some freaky popsicle-stick structure.

"Well," said Hamton with a relieved sigh, "I gotta say, that was unexpectedly easy."

Furrball, placing down his hammer, gave a thumbs-up.

"Okay, what's next?" said Hamton, pulling out the large list again.

* * *

With a set of neon signs pointing the way, Hamton and Furrball were lead into the Wackyland Woods where a number of trees were waiting to be trimmed — their tree tops, that is. Apparently having a haircut was a must for trees in Wackyland, lest their branches get too long and turn into weeping willows.

Hamton, being pudgy, didn't have very good luck in climbing the tree trunks, made all the more difficult because he had to carry hedge clippers in one hand. Furrball, however, had no trouble with the task at all. On all fours and with his tail holding the shears, he rushed up the trunks and pounced from branch to branch, cutting and making snips here and there. Hamton managed to make himself useful down on the ground by sweeping away the fallen branches and leaves as Furrball went about trimming.

"Way to stay productive, Hamton," came Gogo, now swimming in midair, his arms waving in circular motion. "Neat job with the halls, by the way. Nothing like sitting on an upturned deck with a glass of lemonade. Or, in this season's case, eggnog."

After the trees were given a proper haircut, Hamton and Furrball headed next into a part of Wackyland where a large number of different sized lightbulbs were bouncing around in anticipation. Besides regular lightbulbs, there were Christmas lights, ultra-violet lights, penlights, flashlights, lite-brites, and even a few rays of sunlight. Together, Hamton and Furrball tied each to a string and hung them to every surface they could find.

With the road map pointing to their next destination, Hamton wondered for the first time since they arrived what time it was. It was difficult to be aware of things like time in Wackyland. For all he knew, he and Furrball may have been there for hours or even just five minutes. The jobs Gogo set them seemed to fly on by as though someone were writing them out to be brief and straight to the point. . . .

Then there came the last two jobs. . . .

When Hamton had read the word "humbug", his first thought was of Ebenezer Scrooge from Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" and thought, for a moment, that he and Furrball were on their way to clear out a number of unsurely Scrooges. The idea that Wackyland would hold something like that was weird, but honestly, what _wasn't_ weird about this place?

What Hamton and Furrball found, however, was much worse.

It was as though the two boys had walked into a mix between an ant colony and a choir hall. Everywhere around them, flying and crawling over every available surface, were small, striped beetles, skittering grumpily, all letting out a clear droning _hummmmmm_.

Hamton swallowed and felt his skin prickle, as though the bugs were already crawling over him, touching and scraping his skin with their tiny insect legs. It was several long minutes, as well as a few budges from Furrball, before Hamton swallowed again and stepped cautiously towards the skittering bugs (who, for some reason, smelled like peppermint).

Clearing the humbugs out was difficult. Hamton could barely keep his hold on them without shuddering, plus their humming became more aggressive since he intruded on their comings and goings. Furrball was having no better luck. He let out revolted meows as he walked, his arms full of annoyed, humming bugs, twitching as they crawled up and down his arms, over his head, and around his back, though they thankfully didn't bite.

The biggest problem, however, was that Hamton had no idea where Gogo intended him and Furrball to put all of the strange critters. They looked over the vast, strange landscape, but no place seemed like a good spot to drop the insects. Eventually, Hamton and Furrball settled on a closet sticking out in the middle of the nowhere. Though the door wasn't attached to anything, opening it revealed a whole new place entirely. Not knowing what else to do, Hamton and Furrball heaved the bugs inside, one armful after another.

And finally, there came the last item on the list: "Hang the Mistletoes."

Before Hamton could fathom what Gogo possibly intended this chore to mean, he and Furrball jumped as something landed behind them with a CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.

"Why, hello, again," said Gogo, clapping his hands in slow applause. "You two are doing mighty fine. I say, Wackyland is starting to look right in the spirit for the holidays." He paused, watching as Furrball tossed a ball of skittering bugs in through the open door. "Why'd you two put the humbugs in one of our spare closets, though?"

"Where else did you expect us to put them?" asked Hamton, trying not to sound annoyed.

"Why, your mouth, of course," Gogo said, sounding as though this were obvious. "Humbugs _are_ candy, after all. They're a treat for both the ear and the sweet tooth. Just ask mine."

Gogo opened wide and pointed to a tooth which sparkled as though it were made of sugar. A tiny pair of eyes and a mouth appeared, and, in a very sweet voice, said, "Hello, there. Isn't it a great day for some candy?"

Hamton said nothing, but shared a dumbfounded look with Furrball.

Closing his mouth with a bear-trap bite, Gogo spoke again. "Anyway, I see you two have reached the last item on the list, and I just want to say —"

"That you want us to hang mistletoes," said Hamton abruptly. "So, let me guess. Me and Furrball have to go find a bunch of missiles and hang them by their toes. But we have to be careful or else they'll explode."

Gogo blinked, and, for the first time in Hamton's memory, looked confused. "No," he said, his eyebrows low. "I meant mistletoes as in the plant you hang in doorways and you kiss underneath. Really, Hamton! There's no missiles in Wackyland with toes! That's ridiculous!"

Reaching behind his back, Gogo heaved a large box plump full of thin, green leafed branches bearing white berries, all tied by red ribbons.

"Here you go," said Gogo, picking one branch to show it to them. "Hang one in every doorway, archway, and every other way you can find. And what I wanted to say before was not to confuse the mistletoe with holly." Gogo reached deeper into the box, searched around, and pulled out a branch containing sharper leaves with red berries. "Mistletoe has white berries and holly has red. I mean, last Christmas, I kissed just about everyone in Wackyland and when I look up, I see that someone mixed the holly with the mistletoe. I mean, who mistakes that? Am I the only one who pays attention to these things?"

But Gogo wasn't facing Hamton and Furrball anymore. He started wandering out into the vast surreal plain, jabbering away.

"When someone wants to kiss someone and they find they pressed lips for no reason, nobody is happy and your lips will be left hanging there, wondering why you pressed lips to begin with. You'll stand there, all four seasons passing by, wondering and wondering if that kiss meant anything or it if was just an empty act. The purpose of a kiss is to show affection and you darn well better make sure you get it right. Kissing under a mistletoe is a representation of this action, and when you look up and find someone hung a branch of holly by accident —"

Hamton and Furrball watched Gogo walk off until he and his jabbering were so far away that they couldn't be heard. Then, turning back to the box full of the beloved yet poisonous holiday plant, Hamton let out a laugh; he couldn't help it. To think that he and Furrball would be given a job in Wackyland that wasn't totally crazy or a silly take-on-words was, in its own way, delightfully insane.

* * *

Once the last red ribbon of mistletoe was tied and hanging (in some cases upside-down due to the doors being so), Gogo appeared again out of nowhere, still talking his head off.

". . .and it's plain that anyone with eyes, even color-blind dogs, can tell the difference between red and white. Because even though it's Wackyland, I told him, we still like to take part in traditions. A bit offbeat they are, true, but still a tradition that we —"

"Uh, Gogo?" said Hamton, raising his hand. "We're finished."

Gogo looked up to the mistletoe now suspended in the fifty-foot archway the three of them stood underneath. And, to Hamton's wide-eyed discomfort, Gogo smiled broadly and blushed. "Ahhh . . . you shouldn't have."

And, having only just enough time to turn his head, Hamton received a kiss on the lower part of his cheek. He fell over and rubbed the wetness away on the back of his hand. "BLEH!"

Gogo, still smiling, rocked back and forth on his feet. "Oooooh. Saving a kiss for someone else, are you? Someone special?"

Hamton felt his cheeks go very red. "Uh . . . yeah, kinda. . . ."

"Anybody we know?" Gogo asked more slyly.

Having no desire to lead Gogo on any closer than he already was, Hamton pressed his lips very tightly together and remained silent.

Furrball noticed this and gave Hamton a quizzical look.

"Well, I guess that'll be everything I need to start the decorating in Wackyland," Gogo said, looking around at the hundred other doorways now sporting mistletoes. "Hopefully the others will get in the mood and start sharing in the insanity. And now," and Gogo suddenly took on a very serious, business-like tone. He even sported a suit and tie. "Payday."

Reaching into his pocket, Gogo grabbed hold of a huge stack of cash, clearly 12 inches in height. "Let's determine your cut for these jobs."

Then, without warning, Gogo reached behind his back and pulled out, to Hamton's terror, a large, sharp meat cleaver. With a sadistic look on his face, Gogo tossed the wad of cash into the air and, with a fast gleam of steel, he gripped the cleaver with both hands and slashed the money as it fell. Hamton and Furrball jumped backwards in fright, their hearts beating frantically in their throats.

Down on the ground laid the money, not in a hundred half slices, but amazingly, in six separate, whole dollars.

Gogo tossed the cleaver off to the side (to which a scream was heard) and picked up the money.

"There you go, boys," he said, his voice that of a business man. "Sixty bucks well earned."

Their initial horror at almost being sliced in half gone with a few deep breathes, Hamton and Furrball stepped forward and took the green slips, three for each.

"Uh, Gogo?" said Hamton, holding up the three separate dollars. "You paid too much. This is thirty dollars right here. And yours, Furrball?"

Furrball showed them his. Three crisp ten dollar bills.

"I only charged ten dollars. Here." He held out two of the tens for Gogo to take back, but Gogo, still grinning, held up his hand in refusal.

"You two both did five separate jobs for me, so I'm paying you ten for each of one," he said plainly. He then held up his hand and began counting fingers. "That's five jobs, ten dollars to pay, and thus ten dollars for each job. Make sense, right?"

It didn't. What was more, Gogo's math was off.

"But, Gogo," said Hamton, "like you said, we only did five jobs. Even if it was ten dollars each, it wouldn't be sixty dollars, it'd be fifty. You gave us an extra ten. Here, take —" but Gogo shook his head.

"Whoa, now. You lost me on all that logic," he frowned. "This is Wackyland, remember? Try to keep the logic to a dull roar. As for that extra ten, just keep it. It's the holidays, after all, and it's considered a time of generosity. And besides," Gogo smiled, "most others would've shirked the chores I set them, saying they were just too weird. The fact that you two stuck around and did them all really means a lot."

Hamton stood there, holding the three tens, not sure of what to say.

He looked to Furrball, who just shrugged happily.

"Gee . . . thanks, Gogo," said Hamton, putting the money his coat pockets. "Really, this is more than —"

"Yeah, yeah," said Gogo, smiling modestly with a wave of his hand. "Now, I believe you two are finished, right?"

"Yeah, we are," said Hamton. "We'll just be . . . going. . . ?"

Hamton stopped midsentence and found that he was standing a few yards from the one-eyed pyramid. Over Furrball's shoulder rested the corner where they strung up the lights, now glittering with festive colors. And over Gogo's shoulder, there ran a broken compass, its glass surface cracked and its pointer twitching blindly in all direction.

Hamton turned a full circle and still had no idea where he was. Now that he remembered, he and Furrball hadn't entered Wackyland through any door. They just sort of . . . appeared there.

And how long has it been since they arrived? The sky looked as bright and crazy as Hamton first recalled. Was there a difference between night and day in Wackyland?

"Um, Gogo?" asked Hamton. "Where's the exit?"

Smirking, Gogo said, "You're forgetting, Hamton. This is Wackyland. You always come in through the main entrance, but you _always_ leave through a different exit." And then, tapping his finger against his nonexistent chin, Gogo hummed in thought. "Hmm . . . I think a vertical wipe will do for today."

Hamton's eyebrows fell. "A vertical what?"

"'Wipe', Piggy, a vertical wipe," Gogo repeated with a grin. He backed a few feet away, placed both his hands up and gripped . . . the air. It looked as though he were ready to pull something down. "Thanks for everything, you two. It's been surreal!"

Hamton, looking to Furrball for some explanation, did not see Gogo's next action, which happened so fast, Hamton was knocked over and fell backwards onto the snowy ground.

Slightly dizzy, Hamton noticed that the sky had gone dark and the air was cold again.

Furrball helped pull Hamton back onto his feet, but when he was steady, Hamton felt as though would fall over again.

He and Furrball had left Wackyland entirely. They were now standing atop the snow trotted path of country road in Hamton's neighborhood, his house just a short walk away. Night had fallen over Acme Acres, the street lamps were illuminated in the cold winter air, and the now quiet city stood in the distance, most of the buildings alighted while some were dark as though asleep. This made the Acme Loo clock tower all the easier to see; its numbered face was clear even from this distance.

It was 7:30. Hamton and Furrball had been gone the whole afternoon.

"Huh . . .," was all Hamton could say to express his surprise. "Time really flew by, didn't it, Furrball?"

Furrball meowed in agreement, clearly as taken aback as Hamton was.

The Sunday evening was silent. All cars were parked and nobody other than Hamton and Furrball seemed to be outside. Even the wind was gone, resting perhaps to blow for the next day. Only the soft crunching snow beneath their feet was heard on this calm night.

A moment later, however, Hamton heard another sound — a soft grumbling he knew too well. His stomach.

When the grumbling died, something else seemed to awake inside Hamton, something great and demanding. . . .

Hardly thinking, Hamton began running to his house. "Come on, Furrball!" he called after the surprised cat. "Dinner!"

* * *

The next five minutes passed by in a blur of pans, oven heat, and clinking plates. Hamton became so busy that he forgot to take off his coat. The next thing he knew, when he caught his breath, he was standing next to the kitchen table where Furrball was seated, their plates filled with ACME Five Second Lasagna with a side of hot buttery dinner rolls. The sweet red sauce melded with the gooey white cheese like a perfect marriage against the tongue. From what Hamton could tell, Furrball was swimming in bliss, savoring every bite of the warm, delicious food.

Fifteen minutes passed in which Hamton and Furrball ate in peaceful silence. Both had half an extra helping of lasagna and filled up on more bread, and both couldn't help but give a small belch, though they made certain to pardon themselves straight afterwards.

His stomach full, Hamton went to wash the few dishes as Furrball dried them. In all honesty, Hamton could've saved the plates for tomorrow after scrubbing away the tomato sauce, but choose to go ahead with it in order to give him time to think about something rather serious.

He gripped the dirty plate and began to scrub, looking at Furrball out of the corner of his eyes.

Hamton didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him until halfway through dinner, but Furrball had helped him out a _lot_ today. If not for him, Hamton knew he would've never been able to trim the trees in Wackyland; he had always been a horrible climber in gym class. Nor would he have been able to nail all those decks to those hallways, regardless that they weighed lighter than toothpicks. Stringing those fidgeting lights would've taken far longer, those humbugs would've scattered everywhere if not for the extra pair of arms, and those mistletoes — there had been over five hundred of them, and hanging half had been exhausting enough.

Really, having Furrball with him made a _huge_ difference.

Hamton reached into the water and searched hopefully for another dish or fork, but nothing was left under the soapy surface. He pulled the plug, and, at the same time, swallowed, his mind churning with an idea. A crazy idea.

He met Furrball back out in the living room and hung up his coat by placing it on the hook on the wall. He then pulled out the thirty dollars he made at Wackyland from the side pocket.

"Furrball, do you have your share?"

The blue cat nodded, holding up the three tens in his paw.

"Good," said Hamton, smiling lightly. "Thanks for everything today, Furrball. You really saved me today in Wackyland."

Furrball nodded. He then stared down at the three notes as though they were something pleasing yet sad. Then he looked up at Hamton and showed an expression of sincere thanks.

"Meow."

"Well . . . good night." The two shook hands.

His mind now screaming protests, Hamton pulled open the front door. The cold night air hit his face and he shivered. Furrball took his first step outside.

The cold pierced his skin the longer he held the door open, and Hamton thought again to where he met Furrball this morning, to that alleyway and the pitiful surroundings it held. Furrball took a few more steps and was already rubbing his thin arms in the breeze.

Hamton stared after him, knowing he couldn't allow this. He couldn't. There was only one thing for him to do.

"Furrball, wait!"

The shaggy blue cat stopped and looked back.

Knowing he was about to enter into a very awkward, personal subject, Hamton forced his timidity to the side and spoke as plainly as he possibly could. "Furrball . . . you . . . you don't have anywhere to go . . . do you?"

Furrball stared at Hamton uncomfortably. His eyes shifted off to the side as though wanting to look anywhere but the person speaking.

"That was your home, wasn't it?" Hamton went on. "That alley where I found you today. . . ."

Furrball gazed unseeingly at the ground, and Hamton felt a great deal of unspoken sorrow in those feline eyes.

Hamton could feel his own throat constricting. A small part of him wished he hadn't bothered to speak, but knew if he didn't say it now he would regret it later.

"Umm . . . would you . . . I mean . . . Furrball, if you wanted to . . . I . . . umm . . . I wouldn't mind you staying . . . here, that is."

Furrball jerked his head up, wide-eyed.

"I mean," Hamton added quickly — it was crucial Furrball understood this, "I mean, you know, just for the time being . . . so you don't freeze out in this weather. . . ."

The neighborhood fell into silence.

Never in Hamton's life had he made an offer like this. His heart seemed to beat louder than normal.

Furrball, meanwhile, was somewhere between surprised, shocked, and outright speechless. He was as still as stone, his fur swaying in the light breeze.

"Furrball? Would . . . would you like to stay?"

Looking slightly scared, Furrball stepped forward until he was at the doorstep of the house. He clasped his paws together, looked Hamton straight in the eye, and meowed a very gentle, "Uh-huh. . ."

". . .Okay, then."

He stepped to the side, held open the door, and allowed Furrball to walk in. He closed the door shut and the warmth of the house returned instantly.

* * *

A couple of things happened before bed that night.

In the midst of the quiet that had taken over from Hamton's decision, the answering machine seemed to flood the living room with noise, and Hamton and Furrball listened as five messages played, all requesting Hamton's cleaning service and a few odd jobs.

Seeing as he was going to be living with him for an uncertain amount of time, Hamton chose to explain everything to Furrball.

Surprisingly, it was easier than Hamton expected. Furrball didn't laugh and he didn't scoff when Hamton explained that he was raising money so he could buy the Du Coeur. On the contrary, Furrball's reaction was strikingly similar to Hamton's other friends: wide-eyed and baffled at the enormous price. To no surprise, Furrball asked why. And so, with a great effort, deciding that Furrball was trustworthy enough, Hamton took a deep hesitant breath, and confided to Furrball the reason behind his job offers.

"You see, Furrball," Hamton said, his throat feeling very tight. "The reason I . . . that I want to buy a bottle of Du Coeur is . . . is . . ." he paused and looked up. Furrball's head was tilted to the side in curiosity. Hamton sighed. "It's . . . it's so I can give it to Fifi. . . . I want her to know . . . to know how I f-feel about her. . . ."

The silence that filled the living room was unbearable; it was almost stifling. Hamton's cheeks were so hot he thought his face might burn. He felt himself shrinking where he stood. But still Furrball did not laugh. To Hamton's relieved surprise, Furrball smiled lightly and nodded, as though he thought Hamton's efforts were noble.

"You don't think it's funny, that . . . that I like Fifi?" asked Hamton, his cheeks going red at saying this out loud.

Furrball shook his head in complete honestly.

"And you won't tell?"

Smiling, Furrball shook his head.

"And you don't think I'm doing too much?" asked Hamton, remembering his friends' initial thoughts.

Furrball's eyes shifted off to the side, his lips thinned, and he shrugged with a look that said, "I do think it's a bit much, but I respect your reasons for doing it."

As though he had heard these words from the inaudible cat, Hamton answered, "Thanks. I just hope it'll be enough to let Fifi know. . . ."

He stopped there. Though Furrball promised not to tell, Hamton still found it awkward to talk about his crush to anyone, let alone someone he hardly spoke to. He thought of Furrball as a friend, yes, but the two of them had never really done much outside of school or playing amongst others. Not to mention, the last time Furrball was inside Hamton's house it hadn't exactly been an enjoyable stay . . . but that, as Hamton remembered quite clearly, was a long time ago. Furrball, like all their friends, was older since _Tiny Toon Adventures_ ended, and that one episode where Furrball stayed the night had been done purely in the name of viewer entertainment.

"Well . . ." said Hamton, clapping his hands together and feeling quite relaxed, "we better get you settled in, Furrball."

And so, Hamton retrieved a spare pillow and some extra blankets from his bedroom closet and brought them out to the living room couch. Furrball's expression was of utmost delight; the pillow and blankets might've been made of gold silk for all he cared.

Hamton also found a spare toothbrush for Furrball to use, and while the latter washed up in the bathroom, Hamton returned to the desk in his bedroom and wrote down his progress for Fifi's gift.

"Okay, let's see. . ." Hamton thought, tapping the pen to his cheek. "That's fifteen dollars from helping Sweetie, Concord, and Calamity with decorating the school and . . . thirty dollars from working in Wackyland. So . . . forty-five dollars."

 _$1130_

 _-$15 (putting up lights on school)_

 _-$30 (chores in Wackyland)_

 _$1085_

Hamton put the pen down on the list and nodded confidently. "And that's a day."

After depositing the money, he changed into his pajamas and went out to darken the lights.

"Well . . . goodnight, Furrball," said Hamton bracingly. "If you need anything — water, food — the kitchen's just a few steps away."

Furrball, already on the couch with the blankets wrapped around him, nodded a very satisfied smile and laid his head down on the pillow. He let out a very happy yawn.

Hamton returned to his bedroom, shut off the lights, and got into bed.

It was strange but amusing. Despite it only being seven days, a lot had happened since the first day of December. Hamton's decision to raise money for Fifi's gift; walking her home and receiving a hug; hanging out with all his best friends; a vast number of crazy jobs; escaping Elmyra with a mud pie; and now, at the end of this long week, he was lying in bed with a friendly, homeless cat sleeping blissfully on his couch.

And as for money, he was well on his way.

With a shrug, Hamton happily closed his eyes.

Yep . . . things certainly had a strange way of playing themselves out.

 _$1085 to go - 17 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome.**

 **Furrball has joined the ride. How will things be for Hamton now that he has a roommate?**


	16. The Agreement

**It took a while, but my laziness has finally died down and I'm back to posting chapters for my little holiday story. This summer has been quite a crazy ride in terms of work, so I've hadn't much time to write anyway.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter in Hamton's quest for Fifi's heart.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

 _The Agreement_

 _~Dec. 8th, Monday~_

Hamton let out a deep breath and smiled. "I did it," he said, so happy he could cry. "I did it!"

It was December 23rd, the day before the Christmas party at Acme Loo, and Hamton was standing in his bedroom, radiant with joy at having finally reached the last dollar for Fifi's present. Days, weeks, hours of excruciating exhaustion were about to pay off. Now, Fifi would finally know how he felt.

With a confident stride, he went to collect the money from his dresser. He pulled the bottom drawer open . . . and stopped dead, his smile falling into shock.

The lunchbox resting in the drawer was open, its lid ajar. It was empty . . . the money gone.

Hamton's chest went hollow as he stared into the emptiness. He couldn't breathe. Every blood cell in his body was screaming, questioning how this could be.

The answer came in a soft, devil-like sniggering. . . .

His throat closing up, Hamton turned around very slowly. There, standing in the bedroom's open doorway, his hands clutching two thick wads of money, was the dark silhouette of a cat, a hole in one of his pointed ears. His maniacal laughter grew louder, shrewd with intensity until. . . .

Hamton jerked upright, exhaled a deep, strangled breath, and opened his eyes to a partially lit room. Wiping the sweat from his face, he looked around as he steadied himself. He was dressed in his pajamas, lying in his warm bed. His bedroom door was closed and he was perfectly alone. The nightmarish image fresh in his mind, Hamton leapt from the blankets and tugged open the bottom drawer to his dresser. He flipped up the lunchbox's lid. . . and sighed with relief.

All the money was still there, exactly how he left it last night when he made the most recent deposit.

With his heartbeat returning to a steady rhythm, Hamton put the lunchbox back, closed the drawer, and walked out of his bedroom. Out in the living room, Furrball was still sound asleep on the couch, his head resting on the pillow and the blankets covering his body right up to his neck. He looked perfectly at peace, breathing slowly as his tattered ear flickered lightly, perhaps due to a dream.

Smiling, Hamton sighed with relief, but he also couldn't help feeling a tad guilty. Though he may not be able to control his dreams, it was outrageous for his mind to fathom Furrball stealing from him. He knew Furrball, after all. He was a friend. Not one he spent a whole lot of time with, but still a friend.

Stepping close to the couch, Hamton gave Furrball's shoulder a light tap with his fingers. The cat stirred and opened one eye by a margin.

"Furrball," said Hamton gently. "Time to get up. We need to get ready for school."

Furrball gave a soft groan, but managed the energy to push off his covers. He sat up and yawned, sounding like a sleepy kitten.

"Sleep well?" Hamton asked.

Furrball gave a tired nod and then looked questionably at Hamton.

"Me, too," he answered, guessing what the cat was thinking. "Now, how about some breakfast before we head out?"

This suggestion roused Furrball out of his sleepiness entirely. He nodded eagerly.

* * *

"Just a second, Furrball."

Before leaving for school, Hamton opened the front door and held his hand outside it for a few seconds, which was all it took for his fingers to go numb. The winter air had lost yesterday's coolness and returned to its normal bitter chill. Rushing back to his room, Hamton pulled from his closet an old coat and hat for Furrball to wear. Seeing as Hamton was pudgy, both back then and now, they fit Furrball a little loosely, but nevertheless warmly.

Furrball accepted the coat and hat with watery-eyed thanks.

"It's no problem," said Hamton, smiling lightly while also feeling a tad embarrassed. "You can keep them, too. Better they're with you than collecting dust in my closet."

With the front door locked, the two boys began walking through the neighborhood, down the country road, and off into the city. The morning was dim with gray overcast skies and the cold seemed chillier than it had been last week, causing Hamton to stuff his bare hands deep into his coat pockets.

"Sorry I don't have any gloves, Furrball," Hamton apologized. "How are your ha-, I mean paws?"

Furrball, walking steadily and quite at ease, showed both his furry, blue paws. Neither looked cold at all.

"Oh, yeah, right, you have fur," said Hamton, feeling somewhat foolish. "I hope the coat and hat are helping, though."

Furrball nodded gratefully and gave his coat sleeve a pat.

"Roomy and warm?"

Furrball nodded.

"Good."

Halfway along the way to school, Furrball stopped at the alleyway where he had been living and, reaching inside an old box, grabbed a very old, shabby backpack which contained his school notebooks.

Although Hamton didn't understand why, something about the notebooks made his brain tingle, almost as though it were trying to remind him of something. . . .

* * *

To Hamton's surprise, he did not meet Buster or Babs on the way to school. Nor did he catch any glimpse of Plucky, Shirley, or Fifi. The reason for this came with one look up at the clock tower when he and Furrball arrived at Acme Loo. The long clock hands showed that the two boys had left ten minutes earlier than Hamton normally did.

It wasn't until lunchtime that day that he finally got around to taking to his friends. The morning's Wildtakes class had temporarily rendered many students incapable of speech, and Professor Leghorn's rambling lecture went on for so long and so loudly, Hamton's wouldn't have had any luck whispering to anyone if he tried.

So, upon entering the warm cafeteria and grabbing a lunch tray, Hamton went to sit down at the usual table where his five friends were waiting.

"Hey, Hamton," Buster greeted. "How come we didn't see you this morning? Needed to get to school early?"

"Oh, no," said Hamton, shaking his head and opening a small milk carton. "Me and Furrball just got a head start. I guess we weren't paying attention to the time when we —"

"Furrball?" asked Plucky, perplexed. "Why was he with you?"

Hamton placed down his milk carton, checked to make sure nobody nearby was listening, then leaned in on the table, his friends watching him curiously. Then, very quietly but clearly, he explained the events of yesterday: how he found Furrball rummaging through a trashcan for food, how they had worked together at Wackyland, and, lastly, the decision he made the night before in regards to Furrball staying with him.

For a moment, none of Hamton's friends said anything. The cafeteria grew noisy with people chatting and chewing, their forks and spoons scraping on their trays.

Hamton took a slow first bite of his lunch and chewed uncomfortably, his eyes moving back and forth between his friends. The news that he had given Furrball houseroom had rendered them at a complete loss for words. It was impossible to tell whether they approved or not.

Finally, after staring at Hamton in surprise for nearly half a minute, Fifi broke the silence. "Zat . . . zat is so sweet!"

Hamton swallowed hard. "*cough* - Huh?"

"You, helping poor Furrball," said Fifi, giving a light sniffle. "Pulling him from ze cold. So generous!"

"Yeah . . . that really is, Hamton," Buster said with the deepest respect. "That's a _very_ noble thing to do."

In a voice that sounded like it belonged to a mob boss, Babs responded, "Really something else, I say. You've earned my respect, kid. I thank you, the whole family thanks you." Her voice then fell back to its normal tone. "But seriously, Hamton, that was _very_ nice of you. Furrball must've been so happy."

" _I_ think he is," Hamton said with a shrug, looking over a couple tables to where Furrball was eating lunch with Dizzy, Calamity, and other quiet Toons. He then bowed his head and stared intently down at his lunch tray, not really seeing it. "I just couldn't stand to see him walk out into the night like that. He had nowhere to go except back to that alley. It's awful to think that's how he's been living for so long, and that nobody did anything sooner to help. . . ."

"Yeah . . ." said Buster slowly, his sight dropping to the table in deep thought. "That _is_ strange. I wonder why nobody did do anything sooner."

"Wasn't Furrball given his own trailer from _Tiny Toons_ , though?" asked Plucky. "We all got one, remember?"

Everyone nodded.

"Those trailers were the property of Warner Brothers Incorporated," Babs reminded. "They had to be returned after _Tiny Toons_ was over."

"But I thought the show's writers said they were going to give Furrball a trailer to live in," said Buster. "You know, for all the drama and stunts he was put through."

"Where'd you hear that?" Babs asked, an eyebrow raised. "They didn't offer any of us that deal."

"Furrball told me. He . . ." Buster froze, shocked. "Unless . . ."

The six friends turned their heads toward the blue cat, who was drinking from a milk carton and looking perfectly content.

"You mean . . . Furrball lied?" Hamton asked, confused. "But he ended up living on the streets. Why would he lie about still having a trailer?"

Buster gave a sigh. "I think I know."

"What?" they all asked.

Buster put down his fork. He looked grim, as though the weight of realizing this was already affecting him.

"Do you all remember 'The Looney Beginning', when Furrball applied to become an actor on _Tiny Toons_?"

"Of course, we remember," said Plucky. "It was the first episode of our show."

"Well . . . on his job application, when me and Babs were interviewing everyone for parts on the show, I read through Furrball's info, and it said he was 'self-reliant' and 'capable of making adjustments'." Buster quoted these parts with his fingers. "At the time, I thought that just meant he spent most of his time by himself and was good at getting used to different surroundings."

"Well, that much was true," said Babs. "Furrball proved very independent and fitted in well with his acting roles. Or . . ." Babs reconsidered, "you know, well enough for an unlucky alley cat."

"And therein lies the problem," said Buster. "Furrball was, and still is, very independent. He's always preferred doing things himself when off-camera."

"Like, so true," Shirley said. "Remember when we offered to buy him lunch after that one episode? I think it was the one about the 3D glasses?"

"Yeah, he brushed it off and said he was fine," Plucky said with a mouthful of sandwich. Swallowing, he added, "Now that I think back on it, though . . ."

"But Furrball took me up when I offered him lunch and part of my pay from Wackyland," said Hamton, frowning. "He jumped on the idea almost immediately. He looked a little surprised at first, but he agreed wholeheartedly in the end. And he practically cried when I offered him a place to stay. So why . . . ?"

"Perhaps his pride has finally started to dull down a bit," suggested Babs. "It's been over a year since _Tiny Toons_ ended, and I think that time and the lack of paychecks took its toll on Furrball. He's still trying to make it on his own, seeing as he never told any of us he's been homeless for so long. But given how cold this winter's been, he might've finally decided to ask for help." She smiled again at Hamton. "You're a very good person to do so, Hamton."

Hamton didn't say anything to this, but simply nodded.

"Well, at least he's got somewhere warm to go at night," he said bracingly.

"I hope he won't cause you any trouble," Plucky said.

Hamton looked at him in surprise, while the other four gave him a very harsh look.

"What?" Plucky asked, confused. "I'm just saying I hope Hamton knows what he's doing, is all. I mean, I know Furrball's a nice guy, we've known him for years, but to let someone else live with you is a _big_ choice."

"I _know_ it is," Hamton stressed. "But me and Furrball both agreed it would only last until it gets warmer out or until he finds someplace more habitable. And since I live on my own most of the time it's no problem."

"Even if means having another mouth to feed?" asked Plucky, an eyebrow raised. "Did you think about that, Hamton?"

Hamton fell silent, feeling his own appetite ebb away. He _hadn't_ thought about that. Plucky was right: with a second person in the house, Hamton would have to take Furrball's meals into consideration. That meant Hamton would have to make his groceries stretch farther than normal. This, in itself, would be challenging, especially since Hamton wasn't dainty when it came to second helpings. But now, with Furrball in tow, he may not have that privilege anymore. . . .

"Plus," Babs added, glancing sadly down at the table, "what's going to happen to Furrball when it warms up again in spring?"

This question made Hamton feel even worse. What _would_ happen when the snow melted and the cold temperature went with it? Would Furrball just go back to living in that alley? Would he keep going on forever without a home? Was he, Hamton, only building up for a great disappointment? Was he only making things harder for Furrball? For himself?

"I'm sure Furrball will be okay when spring comes," said Shirley, and all eyes turned to her. "I'm, like, sure of it. Furrball's a tough cat. Karma might not have dealt him a good hand despite him being a good person, but he always managed to get by and live fully. Seriously," she added, as though afraid she was being insincere, "his aura is hardy and enduring. It's, like, really something else."

"Yeah. . ." Hamton turned back to watch Furrball at his table, laughing as Dizzy blathered and spun. He did, indeed, look happy, Hamton thought, just like he had many times before, long before he ever set foot inside Hamton's house. Maybe Shirley had a point. . . . Furrball certainly did have a positive nature, regardless not having a home of his own.

"Well, I, for one, think what you are doing is very honorable, Hamton," said Fifi, her hands folded and her eyes sparkling. "Whatever comes after, I am sure Furrball will not forget ze kindness you showed him. It takes a good and tender heart to open a door for a friend in need."

Hamton felt his cheeks go red. "Thanks."

"Anyway," said Buster, his voice suggesting a clear want in changing the subject. "How did things go in Wackyland, Hamton? What did Gogo make you do?"

Quite eager to talk about something else, Hamton described all the absurd things Gogo asked him and Furrball the do, most of which made his friends laugh.

"It's a good thing Furrball was there with me," said Hamton seriously. "Even though those decks weighed little to nothing, I wouldn't have been able to hammer them to those halls with my hands full."

"You didn't hurt those little humbugs, though, right?" asked Shirley concernedly.

Remembering that Shirley had a deep affection for bugs, Hamton waved his hand reassuringly, "It's okay, Shirley. Me and Furrball put them all in a closet, though Gogo apparently expected us to eat them. He ate just one," Shirley flinched in sympathy. "Yeah, sorry. Gogo said they were candy."

"Bleh!" Babs exclaimed, sticking out her tongue which held a few traces of carrot. "Sounded like a creepy job."

"Speaking of jobs, how much money have you made so far, Hamton?" asked Plucky.

Hamton thought for a moment. "I think I've made somewhere around . . . four-hundred dollars, maybe?"

Fifi, who had been taking a sip of juice, choked slightly. "Sacré bleu! Four-hundred dollars? Zat is a lot!"

Thinking of the Du Coeur and its enormous price, Hamton shrugged mildly. "Yeah, I . . . I guess. . . "

"And you made that much in only a _week_?" asked Plucky, sounding impressed.

"Well, some of it was from what I've saved up already, but otherwise most of it came from all the jobs I've been doing."

"You must be close to being done with work, zen," said Fifi. "What are you planning to do with all zat money, anyway, Hamton?"

Dead silence fell upon the table, and even though the rest of the cafeteria was abuzz with conversation, the lone quietness of his table weighed heavily upon Hamton. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw all his friends looking at him intently, wondering what he would say.

"Uh . . ." Hamton's mouth went dry as he struggled to form his words. "I'm . . . planning on buying something special, Fifi."

"Like what?" she asked, clearly wanting to know more.

Hamton's hands clenched beneath the table. "Oh . . . well, y-you know . . ." He made a funny jerking motion with his head and hands, which he thought must've made him look stupid.

As though to confirm this, Fifi eyed him even more curiously.

Feeling she deserved a proper explanation — though not the whole truth — Hamton went on, his mind scrambling. "There's . . . something I need to get in time for the holidays, Fifi. Something very special, and I'm working extra hard to make sure I got enough money for it."

"That's shouldn't be too hard now," said Buster abruptly, perhaps to save Hamton from any more awkward questions. "Not with Furrball there to help you."

Hamton blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Furrball," Buster repeated. "Since you both worked so well together in Wackyland, why not have Furrball _keep_ helping you, Hamton? You'll be able to cover more ground that way and raise the money faster."

"But I also have to share the money with Furrball. I let him have half my earnings from our work in Wackyland. It was only fair."

"Or maybe. . ." said Plucky, tapping his finger to his bill.

"Plucky?" Babs said suspiciously. "What are you thinking?"

"Okay, hear me out." Plucky held up his hands in a sign of peace, and then brought them together. "Hamton, you asked Furrball if he could help you, right?"

"Well . . . I asked him if he would like to earn some money with me and he said, well, he _meowed_ that he would."

"And did he have any complaints while you two were working?

"No, not that I know of." Hamton paused, thinking over the previous day's events. "Furrball didn't seem to mind anything that happened. I mean, he and I just sort of worked it all out together. It really made things easier."

"Then I think I have an idea that will benefit both you _and_ Furrball."

Hamton eyed Plucky curiously, as did the others. "Yes?"

"How about you have Furrball 'pay' you for living in your house by helping you out?"

"What?" asked Hamton. "What do you-"

"Think of it like paying for rent," Plucky explained. "You can keep providing food and shelter and keep Furrball out of the cold, and Furrball, in return, can keep lending you a hand with your jobs. That way you can keep every dollar you make and Furrball will still be happy."

Everyone stared at Plucky. Hamton wasn't sure whether or not he liked the idea; it seemed, somehow, both reasonable AND covetous.

"Hmmmm. . ." said Babs. She was eyeing Plucky with something like reluctant praise. "I have to be honest, Plucky, that's not the worst thing I thought you'd say."

"What did you _think_ I was going to say?" asked Plucky, an eyebrow raised.

"I imagined you would've said to hog all the money and have Furrball do all the work."

Plucky frowned in annoyance. "Oh, come on, I'm not _that_ greedy!"

They all raised an eyebrow.

"Okay . . . maybe I am a _bit_ greedy, but I wouldn't go as far as to blatantly _use_ someone. Not blatantly. . ."

"But, you guys," said Hamton nervously, all eyes turning to him, "would Furrball accept that? I mean, he needs money like the rest of us do. In fact, he needs it _more_ than we do."

"You should talk it over with him, Hamton," said Babs. "I'm going to be honest, I have no opinion on this idea." She turned to look at Plucky. "I'm not saying it's a terrible idea, but I'm not saying it's fantastic, either. Hamton," she turned back to him, "you're right that Furrball could use the money more than you could, but I understand you also have your own agenda to carry out. Whatever you chose to do, I'll accept."

"We all will," said Buster. He looked to the others. "Right?"

"Like, sure."

"Oui."

"You got it."

Hamton eyed them all, surprised by how confident they were in what he would choose. It did nothing, however, to make the idea and decision any easier. Perhaps Babs noticed his anxiety, for she said,

"Talk to Furrball, Hamton," she said in that kind, sisterly way. "Ask him what he wants to do."

* * *

Before he headed to Self-Centerism class, Hamton approached Furrball in the library and discussed the idea Plucky brought up at lunch time. He dreaded that Furrball would be insulted at the idea of having to work to pay rent, and even more so at the idea of not receiving _any_ money for his share in Hamton's work. The idea of going through with this proposal made Hamton feel crummy. But the final say, he knew, would be up to Furrball. If he said yes, then fine. If he said no . . . well, Hamton would just have to work harder to buy Fifi her gift. But no matter what, Furrball would still have a place to stay — Hamton was determined of that, no matter _what_ was decided.

"So, Furrball," said Hamton, folding his hands together while giving a shaky smile, "if that's okay. . . . I mean, if it's not, I'll understand."

It took Furrball only two seconds to answer. A smile and a nod.

Hamton blinked at the suddenness. "You sure?"

Again, Furrball nodded, then made several hand gestures. First, he pointed up at the ceiling, then motioned around the library, before finishing by giving his belly a soft pat.

Hamton thought for a moment, then made an attempt at interpretation. "You'll accept shelter and food as payment?"

For a third time, Furrball nodded with a smile. There was no hesitation to it.

And there it was. Hamton felt a surge of gratitude which removed any trace of stress he may have acquired before asking. Furrball was perfectly okay with helping out, and even more so in having a roof over his head and food in his stomach as payment. It was better than Hamton could've hoped.

"Thanks, Furrball," Hamton said gratefully, so happy he started shaking the cat's hand. "This really means a lot. I'll make you something very good for dinner after we're done with work tonight."

Furrball beamed and meowed what Hamton could easily guess was a "Thank you" in return.

* * *

Around an hour later, Hamton walked off to Calculations class, still feeling considerably cheerful. The fact that someone was going to help him raise money for Fifi's gift felt like a blessing from above, an early Christmas present. With Furrball's agreement to help, the whole thing felt not only easier, but more possible than before.

Yes, Hamton thought as he and the rest of the class took their seats. Everything was going to work out, he just knew it.

And Furrball. . . . Hamton looked over at him in his desk, the cat's blue paws flipping through his Calculations notebook. Besides dinner tonight, Hamton would have to find a way to pay Furrball back for his kindness. A gift maybe. . . .

But before Hamton could begin processing ideas, Buster, sitting in the desk in front of Hamton, turned around and spoke.

"So, Hamton? What did Furrball say?" he asked.

"He'll do it, he said he'll help me," Hamton said, and he felt the happiness from this fact return as he smiled.

"Great," said Buster happily. "Glad to hear it worked out."

The school bell rang, and, on cue, Professor Granny walked into the classroom.

"Good afternoon, students," she said. "Time to hand in your homework from Friday. If you haven't already done so, come and staple it and place it on my desk."

Hamton took his notebook and flipped it open. What he saw made his stomach sink like the Titanic.

On the page, written in pen, were the three math problems Hamton completed a few days ago, and beneath that, where the rest of the assignment should've been, was nothing else. . . .

Hamton's insides started to crawl as though they were filled with slime-covered centipedes. In desperation, he flipped to the next page in his notebook, foolishly hoping that he had done the homework on a different page, knowing perfectly well that he hadn't. The jobs in Wackyland and the agreement to let Furrball stay with him had driven all thoughts of homework out of his mind, and now here he was with a lead brick in his stomach, about to hand in an assignment that wasn't even halfway finished.

Still, he told himself miserably, a three out of thirty was still better than a flat zero.

With as much calm as he could muster, Hamton walked up to Granny's desk and handed in his homework. He watched as it became buried beneath the other assignments, like a landmine resting amongst the paper.

"Okay, class," said Professor Granny, taking the seat behind her desk. "Today, we'll do some book exercises that review the material we studied from the previous week. Do problems one through twenty-five, starting on page 65,213. You have an hour to finish and turn them in."

The floor shook as everyone opened their monstrously huge books — one desk at the back of the classroom actually broke under the strain.

The scratching of pencils and pens on notebook paper filled the class, as well as a few sighs from those who had trouble understanding the work. Hamton, his throat tight and his head hurting from stress, couldn't concentrate on the equations. His eyes kept shooting up to Granny as she started to grade the homework on her desk.

The minutes began to pass. It became difficult to swallow and Hamton felt as though he was slowly waiting for a bomb to drop. He knew what was coming and there was not a thing in the world he could do about it.

Deciding, however, that not having any work done at the end of class would only make things worse, Hamton swallowed his stress as best he could and forced his mind to focus. He took a deep, silent breath and looked down at his textbook.

 _Question 1 . . ._

* * *

The hour ticked by with the sounds of writing on paper, feet lightly scuffling under desks, and with Hamton working hard to keep himself from looking up at the teacher's desk. Only five minutes remained of class time when, without warning, a very irate Granny spoke from the front of the class.

"Hamton!"

Hamton froze as the entire class went silent and looked questionably up, first at their teacher, then back to Hamton

"Yes, Miss Granny?" asked Hamton, his throat dry and his face feeling red.

Her eyes staring beadily out through her glasses, Granny held up a single, mostly-blank sheet of notebook paper. "Did you, by any chance, forget to hand in the rest of your homework?"

With a sigh, Hamton said, "No. . . . I . . . I forgot to do the rest."

For a moment there was quiet, and Hamton felt embarrassment burn in his cheeks.

"I see," said Granny, her voice like steel. "I would like to have thought the whole weekend would've been enough time for you to finish, but your mind, apparently, thought differently."

"No, Miss Granny. I didn't mean —"

"I don't want excuses!" Granny said sharply. "Perhaps some _extra_ homework _and_ a detention will help remind you to finish your work on time."

The words hit Hamton like a punch in the gut. His friends looked shocked and the other students held looks of sympathy, all except for Montana Max.

"Ha! Nice going, fatty!" he said with a cruel smirk. "Sheesh! What a moron!"

"Silence, Monty!" snapped Granny, her glare now set dead on the rich boy. "I won't have _any_ sort of insults in my class! And I'll have you know _your_ homework was _hardly_ satisfactory! Everyone knows pixels are made up of triads, not triangles! _And_ , in case you've forgotten from your homework last time, Monty, dollar signs _do not_ count as fives!"

Growling and glaring, Monty gritted his teeth in resentment as the laughter — this time from the whole class — turned towards him. And Hamton, in spite of his gloom at being given a detention and extra homework, found a tiny ray of joy to be had at seeing Monty look so furious.

* * *

Class ended only a few minutes afterward. Before leaving, Monty shot Hamton an enraged look as though he blamed him for his small humiliation, then proceeded to stomp out of the room, slamming his calf-leather shoes so hard he left cracks in the tile floor. The rest of the class made their way out a lot more calmly.

"Wait here, please, Hamton," said Granny, seated at her desk and sorting papers. "We need to decide your detention."

His stomach feeling empty and hollow, Hamton saw his friends, Furrball included, give him looks of sympathy as they made their way out of the classroom. The only ones left inside where himself, Granny, and, for some reason, Sweetie Bird.

"Sweetie?" said Granny, eyeing her small student. "Do you need something?"

"Well, Miss Granny, if you don't mind, I have a suggestion for Hamton's detention," said Sweetie. "That is, if I may?"

Hamton and Granny eyed the tiny pink bird curiously.

"Yes?" Granny asked.

"Me and the decorating committee are looking for an extra pair of hands to help in decorating the school grounds. So, I was thinking, if Hamton could help us out. . . ."

Hamton stared at Sweetie miraculously. It felt as though the little bird was shooing away the dark storm cloud over Hamton's head.

"Hmm. . ." said Granny thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it . . . that _would_ be a productive way for Hamton to serve his detention." Looking quite satisfied, Granny nodded. "All right, Hamton. You heard Sweetie. You can serve your detention by decorating the school."

"Uh, okay," said Hamton, doing everything he could to keep himself from smiling, fearing it would make him look suspicious. "I'll get right on it."

"Good," said Granny, and she stood up from her desk and made her way to the door. "Oh, by the way, Hamton," she stopped and turned to look back at him, "for your extra homework, I'd like to see problems one through twenty on page 6,987 completed for tomorrow. Good day to you both, then."

And with that, she left the classroom, leaving Hamton to grin thankfully at Sweetie, who returned the gratitude with a wink.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait," Plucky said, laughing with rich amusement. "You were _already_ planning on helping out?

"Yeah," said Hamton, standing alongside his friends in the hallway, Sweetie perched atop his bald head. "I helped out a little on Sunday, right before I met Furrball, and so I agreed to help out for today and tomorrow." Smiling, he looked up the tiny bird on his head. "Thanks, Sweetie. You really saved me back there."

"No problem, Hamton," she said. "It'll be much easier for us if you're helping Concord, anyway. He can barely fly straight, let alone hang a couple hundred lights."

"Well, it's good that everything worked out for you, Hamton," said Buster, zipping up his coat. "See you guys tomorrow," and taking Babs' hand in his, the two rabbits set out for the exit.

"Come, Plucky," said Fifi, tying her scarf around her neck. "We need to get to work."

Still laughing uncontrollably in his waiter's uniform, Plucky pulled on his coat and followed Fifi to the door.

Shirley, being the last one there, besides Furrball, smiled and said, "Good karma's coming your way, Hamton. Like, keep at it." And then she too left.

Sweetie took leave of Hamton's head and fluttered in the air. "I'll see you outside in a minute, Hamton. I just have to fly to the little birdie's room."

She flew off and Hamton turned to Furrball.

"Funny how things just work out, isn't it?" Hamton said, shaking his head with a smile.

Furrball meowed and shrugged happily.

"Anyway, Furrball" said Hamton, now looking very serious. "Are you sure you still want to help me raise money?"

He nodded.

"Okay, then." Hamton reached into the pocket of his overalls and, knowing he could trust him, handed Furrball a key. "Here's the house key, Furrball. We have only two houses to clean today. One is at 5:00, but I'm not sure how long I'll need to stay here at school. I don't think my job here should last anywhere past 6:00, so I'll meet you at the second house. The addresses are written on a slip of paper next to my duffel bag inside my bedroom. Got all that?"

Furrball nodded, fully understanding. And with that, Furrball and Hamton both walked outside, one walking into the school yard with Calamity and Concord, the other heading out beyond the arch and out towards his new temporary home.

 _$1050 to go - 16 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments, positive or negative, are welcome.**

 **Next chapter, my story will be told through a different POV. Guess who.**


	17. Fifi's Curiosity

**Thanks must be given to Redtop1995 for proofreading this chapter. I must say, it's nice to have someone look over the story, offering their advice, checking those things I missed.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

 _Fifi's Curiosity_

 _~Dec. 11th~_

The following three days in Acme Acres were, for the most part, uneventful. But, more than once, Fifi La Fume took notice of certain details which she found too compelling to pass as trivial.

The first and perhaps smallest detail happened when she started coming into work more days this week than the last.

With the holidays swiftly approaching, the Acme Acres Country Club requested that she play the harp more often in celebration of the season. With the payment being very good and the praise she often received for her music even more so, Fifi gladly accepted. Besides, the restaurant truly was a fabulous location. Fifi found the classy surroundings most inviting, and seeing as Plucky started working more often too, she was glad to have a friend to talk to on breaks.

During those hours in which her fuzzy purple fingers strummed the harp's thin, sweet-sounding strings, Fifi had plenty of time to gaze around the dim, finely set dining room. The chandeliers glowing yellow with crystal, the red carpet clean and smooth (vacuumed twice, daily and nightly), and the clothed tables set with sparkling silverware and polished china, all illuminated in a soft candlelight.

But what really grabbed Fifi's attention were that the tables, more often now than before, held couples, young and old, feasting on food and enjoying each other's company. The aroma of sweet wine and imported flowers greatly enhanced the serene atmosphere and made it all the more romantic.

"Le sigh..." Fifi said, both out of joy as well as sorrow. She knew it wasn't anything new, but sometimes there were days when working at the Country Club proved to be painful. All that romance, all that beauty, all amassed in this perfect setting of food, flowers, and music, and not anywhere in sight was Fifi's own darling boy, waiting for her as she eternally waited for him.

Thankfully, though, her music normally demanded her full attention and she didn't have to look at the beautiful faces. Plus, thanks to Plucky and his usual grumbling about getting tips lower than $20, Fifi was able to happily laugh the small pain away.

Alongside her job, the second particular detail Fifi took notice of was of Acme Acres itself.

During her walks to and from school, she found the city becoming livelier with the gradually rising holiday spirit. Sparkling silver and gold garland was being hung in the shop windows with green wreaths at their centers. Holly with red berries and silver bells were strung around light poles, and, in almost every direction, one could see at least a dozen decorative lights. Christmas trees were being stuffed roughly through doorways, Hanukkah menorahs were easily placed behind frosted windows, and holiday candles of all sorts, including those for Kwanzaa, were on sale in several stores.

But the place that held the most decorative spirit was, to many a Toon's surprise, Acme Looniversity. Back on Monday, only the east wall of the school yard was decorated with multi-colored lights, but by Tuesday morning, all the walls and the entrance arch were bedecked with twinkling color. The strings had even been painted so as to blend with the background and not take attention away from the lights, and the ones at the top of the arch were rearranged meticulously so that they spelled out:

 _ **Have a Zanny Holiday!**_

By Wednesday morning, the school was decorated even more. The statues of Bugs and Daffy were wrapped in lights so that their graduation gowns looked like they were glowing, (their mortar boards still had about a foot of snow stacked on top).

The walkway leading to the school's front doors were lined with tiny Christmas trees, which were obviously fake but still eye-catching. The hallways inside had tinsel hanging above the lockers and papery snowflakes were taped to all the classroom doors. Though they were small touches, they somehow made the entire school feel festive and merry.

But of all these things happening around Acme Acres and its school, Fifi found that the majority of her focus had fallen towards a most curious place. It wasn't the decorations, the couples at the Country Club, or the fact that every time she turned on her Cadillac's radio she heard holiday music. No.

What was drawing her attention more than anything else was a certain friend of hers. . . .

* * *

 _Tuesday, Dec. 9th_

Fifi woke on Tuesday to the sound of romantic holiday music coming from her dashboard radio, which also conveniently served as an alarm clock. The pink Cadillac was warm and toasty, its heart-shaped cushions comfy and soft, and, as Fifi yawned and stretched her slender arms, she saw the morning's first golden rays outlining the tall buildings outside.

Once finished with a minute's worth of stretching, Fifi grabbed some cereal out from her tiny fridge located in the Cadillac's trunk. She poured herself a bowl, eased back on her large fluffy tail, and ate in the car's front seat. She passed the time taking bites while gazing around the city buildings' edges and counting the fence posts surrounding the dump outside. This quickly became boring, so Fifi turned instead to an issue in last month's Dream Date magazine (Skunk Ed.), lying open in the empty driver's seat to the left.

She regretted this almost at once, for all it did for her was bring out a soft, sad "Le sigh. . ."

With a heavy heart, she drank down the last dregs of her cereal, trying to ignore the photo of a happy skunk couple.

Before leaving for school, Fifi changed the water in the vase where she kept the rose bouquet she had been given for the Talent Show back on December 1st. All the roses were nearly wilted and their beautiful smell had long since faded, but the red petals still brought a sense of romance to Fifi's small home and she didn't want to get rid of them until she had to.

She gave the sturdiest looking rose a soft stroke with her index finger, and then walked out of the Cadillac and onto the Dump's snowy shoveled path. She locked the cold car door, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and walked past the fence and onto the sidewalk, her large fluffy tail bobbing slightly as she went.

She met up with her friends on schedule and instantly Fifi's attitude improved. The sight of Babs and Buster holding hands was heartwarming, and listening to Plucky boast about his tips at the Country Club was enough to make you roll your eyes and giggle (at least it was for Shirley). And there, off to the side, as Fifi knew he would be, was Hamton, now accompanied by Furrball, who looked remarkably different wearing a winter coat and hat. Anyone who didn't know him would've never guessed that he had once been homeless.

And here it was, on this sidewalk where she and friends were walking, that Fifi first noticed it.

The fact that Hamton had so generously welcomed Furrball to live with him in his house still astounded Fifi. Even if it was only meant for a short period, Hamton's act of kindness warmed Fifi from the inside, but not just because the act was so saintly. This warmth . . . it was the same kind she felt last week when Hamton comforted her after Monty's wicked insults.

Arriving at school and taking quick notice of the new decorations on the school gates, Fifi headed off to the day's first class with her friends, which was Physical Comedy with Professor Porky Pig. Seated at her desk, she found herself tracing her memory of Hamton as though it were all happening on fast-forward.

The malicious words from Monty's buck-toothed mouth. Babs and Shirley hugging and reassuring her as she wept. Hamton waiting for her in the hallway. Hamton walking her home. Hamton patting her arm. Hamton relating his want of someone to love too. Hamton encouraging her to stay happy and not give up. . . .

Fifi was so absorbed by her thoughts of Hamton that she almost jumped in her seat when the school bell rang, signaling the end of class. From left to right, she watched as her friends and the other students walked out, when only a minute ago everyone had sat down.

"And don't forget class," Porky Pig called after them from behind his desk. "We'll be having a p-p-p-pop, uh, we'll be having a surprise test on Inflation ne-ne-ne-ne-next time we meet."

* * *

 _Wednesday, Dec. 10th_

Fifi fought determinedly to keep herself focused as she walked to school with her friends the next day. It was bad enough she spaced out on a whole lesson yesterday in Physical Comedy, but that day a few other instances had occurred in which her mind wandered to examine her curious feelings. Professor Daffy had scolded her in Spotlight Stealing for stealing the teacher's current spotlight because she was not paying attention. At lunch, Shirley became offended that Fifi remained silent when asked for her opinion about crystal gazing. But the worst distraction that day happened at the Country Club where Fifi went a whole hour without realizing she had played the same romantic song three times in a row. It wasn't until Plucky tapped her shoulder and asked what was up before Fifi realized she was sitting in front of a crowd of diners who all looked slightly impatient with her.

As such, Fifi had enough time that morning to slap herself awake and mentally devote her mind to school, planning to save her more curious thoughts for later.

This worked rather well. She got through all her classes just fine and sat through a rather intriguing lecture from Professor Elmer Fudd in his Cartoon Logic class.

"Wemember, cwass," he said, tapping a pointer onto the chalk board, which was scrawled with detailed information. "Wike in weal wife, in animation, evewy action has an equal and opposite weaction. And, wike weal wife, as well as animation, cause and effect is as much phiwisophical as it is wogical. Though our actions towards each other are so vast and compwicated that the wesults can never be fully understood until experwienced, evewy action fwom the past affects those made in the pwesent. And evewy action in the pwesent will, in turn, effect the future.

"Some of you, Shirley in pawticular," he said continued, giving the loon a complimentary nod, "may know of this phenomenon as 'Karma'. Wike circles made by a stone thwown in the water, our choices can strwetch to gweat lengths — some as short as a few minutes, others as long as a thousand years. But no matter how far our actions twavel, those actions always weturn to that one point in time in which we decided. Those things that have happened days before can weave an impwession for months, maybe even lifetimes. So, as the scientists and phiwosphers say: make your choices cawefulwy; they _will_ inflwuence you and others in the far future.

"Now, for those of you who still don't understand — _Pwucky_!" Professor Fudd growled, causing the green duck to shirk in his seat, jarred awake from a quick nap. "Take this as an example. In a cartoon, someone dwops an anvil from the sky and it wands on someone's head. The cartoon viewer, watching through the television, waughs at the weaction the anvil had on the character. The cartoon thus serves its purpose in making someone waugh. But it's not always that simple. This example of such a cartoon can cause some people to associate physical humor as being playful, while sadwy, when someone gets hurt in weal life, it may cause the cartoon viewer to waugh at someone else's misfortune.

"Now, compared to witnessing someone do a _good_ deed, like inviting a fwiend over for lunch or spawing them a few dollars when they badwy need it, the viewer may view the positiveness of the gesture and feel motivated to share the expewience with another. The kindness wubs off on the weceiver and they, in turn, either weturn the favor or wenew the cycle, thus passing some genewosity onto another person.

"Or if you weally want to get twicky, take this for example." Professor Fudd cleared his throat. "You have two people walking down the same sidewalk, both in different moods and personawity. Both are heading to the same destination which could cause a chain weaction in which one person —"

But Professor Fudd never got around to saying the rest. There was a brief moment of sizzling that became louder as he spoke, and then —

BANG!

A small explosion rattled the classroom and sent green feathers flying everywhere.

With a loud groan, Professor Fudd went behind his desk and dialed on his school telephone.

"Hewwo? Gwanny?" he said into the receiver. "I need you to pwepare a stwetcher."

A moment's silence.

"Yes," Fudd sighed in annoyance. "Pwucky's head expwoded, _again_."

He hung up the phone and smacked his hand to his face.

"Well, cwass, to further pwove my point about cause and effect, I'll have to cut this wesson short on account of Pwucky's apparent wack of mental space. Pwease wead chapter eight on Cartoon Karma and be weady to discuss it on Fwiday. Cwass dismissed!"

By the end of the school day, Plucky was back on his feet, his head bandaged and most of his feathers glued back together.

He tightened the tie on his waiter's uniform and grumbled, his voice full of scorn. "Cause and effect, pheh! If that's true then Fudd should reconsider being a teacher. How is any student supposed to keep all that stuff inside their skull?"

"You just gotta pay better attention, Plucky," replied Shirley, pulling her long blonde hair out from her coat's collar.

"I _did_ pay attention!" Plucky snapped defiantly. "That's what caused my concussion!"

"Then allow me to, like, restate and repeat," said Shirley, clearing her throat. "The point of Professor Fudd's lesson: pay careful attention to the decisions you make, because they'll affect everyone. That's really all it was. Nothing mondo challenging about it, really. I, for one, think the advice is, like, quite sound. Seriously, I think it's one of the best things anyone can learn, or re-learn."

"Yeah, well. . ." Plucky complained. "Fudd didn't have to make it sound so complicated. The way he speaks is challenging enough."

With a few more openings and closing of lockers around the hall, Buster turned to address his friends. "Well, I guess that's the end of school until tomorrow. Same time as always?"

They all nodded. Buster and Babs headed for the door along with Plucky and Shirley. Fifi, however, paused and watched Hamton turn in the opposite direction and met up with Furrball by his locker.

Fifi stood where she was and watched the pair of them, seeing Hamton pick up a duffel bag that read 'ACME Ultra-Storage'.

"Ready?" Hamton asked his shaggy companion.

Furrball gave a determined nod and the two boys turned and started towards the front door.

"Hey, Fifi!"

She turned. Plucky and Shirley were standing by the open door.

"Come on, Fifi," Plucky called after her, "we're going to be late for work!"

Fifi, her scarf in hand, sprinted toward the front door.

"See ya, Fifi," said Shirley. "Bye, Plucky," and she gave him a kiss on the cheek. This time, Plucky did not shirk from it.

"Thanks," he said softly, his bill going red as Shirley walked outside.

"See you all later," said Hamton as he walked past them, his face going red due to the chilly breeze coming through the door. Furrball, dressed in his new coat, raised his paw and gave a soft wave and a cheerful smile.

"Cleaning _again_ , Hamton?" asked Fifi in surprise.

"Uh . . . yeah, we are, Fifi," Hamton answered hesitantly. His face became redder, and Fifi wasn't sure now if it really was because of the cold air.

"But have you both not done zat two days in a row now?"

"Well, actually, Furrball cleaned two houses on Monday while I helped with decorating the school. It took a lot longer than I thought." Hamton explained. "Today, though, we got five houses."

"Five?" repeated Plucky, wide-eyed.

"Better than eight," Hamton said with a shrug, looking quite calm at the jobs ahead. "Besides, with Furrball's help, I'll get done twice as fast."

He said it reasonably enough, but Fifi still thought it strange. Hamton had made over four-hundred dollars already, and he and Furrball were trying to collect even more. How much more money was Hamton thinking to raise?

Before Fifi could voice this question, Hamton quickly crossed her and Plucky's path and said, "See you all tomorrow."

Furrball meowed a farewell, and the two of them hurried down the path lined with mini Christmas trees, out through the school's archway, and out of sight down the sidewalk.

"Well," said Plucky with slight tiredness, "I guess we better get going, too."

Fifi followed Plucky as they went down the stairs and passed the statues of Bugs and Daffy cloaked with lights. Over by the walls, more Christmas lights were strung around in curled, wavy patterns. In another hour, the sun would be down and the school would be aglow with twinkling, colored beauty. As fabulous as it would probably be, Fifi couldn't spare it much thought.

Try though she did, she couldn't help wondering what Hamton was doing, and not merely because she had been thinking about him all day.

* * *

At around 9:00, the last of the Club's diners left and the janitors began their work cleaning the tables and floor. Fifi remained beside the harp in the dining room and rubbed her now sensitive finger tips against her palms to relieve them after hours of plucking strings. The songs she had played still resonated through her ears. She would've thought a few hours of elegant music would've been enough to clear away her curious musings, but they emerged yet again as though they had merely risen from a long nap.

She ran her tingling fingers through her periwinkle hair and sighed. With her thoughts churning and her mind seemingly making decisions for her, Fifi headed into the kitchen where Plucky and the other wait staff were hanging up their aprons. From the looks of it, her green-feathered friend was chewing a few untouched scraps of food.

"Plucky?" Fifi ventured, walking up to him.

Plucky froze, then said with his mouth half full, "Gley were 'ever 'ouched! Gley were going 'o 'e 'rown away 'nyway. It's a 'ime to 'aste 'ood, 'u know?"

"Plucky, it is all right," Fifi hastily replied. "Ze staff are allowed to eat whatever cannot be served, remember? Anyway, I need to ask you something."

Plucky swallowed his food, and then spoke, "Yeah? What?"

Fifi paused, not really knowing how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

"Plucky? Do . . . do you remember last Monday, when Hamton said he was working to raise money?"

Plucky stared at her. "Yeah?" he said slowly.

"Do you know what it is zat he is working for?"

Plucky hesitated, as if reluctant to answer. "Uh . . . not really, no."

"He has not said _anything_?" she asked, a little surprised. "Not to you, or Buster? Not to anyone?"

"All he's said is that it's a surprise," said Plucky, loosening his bow tie. "He hasn't said much else. But I think I get what you mean, Fifi. I couldn't believe how hard Hamton was working when I first heard about it, either. I mean, _eight_ houses in one day? But . . . after seeing him do it, I guess Hamton's got a handle on it. Plus, with Furrball helping out, I think he'll have an easier time from here on out, don't you think?"

Fifi paused, watching Plucky with suspicion. Was it just her or was he trying to change the subject? "Is Hamton raising ze money for an event, like a party? Is it for someone we know?"

Plucky stared at her so intently that Fifi could've sworn she had guessed right.

Instead, he responded with, "No idea. I have no clue. . . ."

". . .Oh," said Fifi softly, a little disappointed but not bothering to inquire further. A part of her felt that Plucky probably did know, but she didn't want to be invasive. Whatever Hamton wanted the money for was his business, not hers, regardless of how curious she was becoming.

Fifi grabbed her scarf from off its hook and wrapped it around her neck, letting it rest over her shoulders. She followed Plucky, now dressed in his winter coat, out to the restaurant's entrance, past the busy janitors who now vacuuming and sterilizing the floor.

"Fifi?" Plucky asked, stopping by the glimmering brass doors. "Would it be all right if I ask _you_ a question?"

"Oui, of course," said Fifi, tossing one of her scarf's ends over her shoulder.

Plucky zipped up his coat, and then asked, "Is it painful that this place asks you to play romantic music all the time?"

Fifi blinked. "Pardon?"

"Well . . . you're always talkin' about wanting a boyfriend, and . . . well, doesn't playing romantic music all the time make it . . . I don't know, hard on you? Depressing?"

"Depressing?" repeated Fifi, giving an amused smile. "Oh, no, no. It is a joy, Plucky. A delight zat I can express my fondness of romance through music. After all, as Monsieur Shakespeare once said, 'Music is ze fruit of love.'"

Plucky smirked. "You really are determined, aren't you?"

"Of course, I am," said Fifi, smirking. "I am 'appy to see romance in ze customers, as well as all my friends. I may not 'ave found my true love yet, but I 'ave hope. Shirley even predicts that my true love is closer zan I think." She closed her eyes and embraced the sudden warmth that seemed to come not from the restaurant, but her heart. "Yes, someday, I will find mon petit skunk hunk. I just know it."

And then, unable to stop herself, she let out a soft, "Le sigh. . ."

Plucky didn't respond to this, but did open the door for her. "Well, I'm rooting for you, Fifi. Although," he added abruptly, "does your dream date necessarily _have_ to be a skunk?"

Fifi's eyes flew open, her daydream shattered like glass. The effect of this question was so powerful, she may have just been slapped.

Before she could splutter her response, Plucky exited quickly through the front door. Feeling the chilly breeze through the closing glass, Fifi watched him through the restaurant windows until he walked out of sight down the sidewalk, the sounds of the vacuum cleaner humming behind her.

The night's music completely brushed away, Fifi found herself standing there, stunned by Plucky's question. Never in her life had she been asked a question like that. And what was perhaps the most shocking thing of all, Fifi realized she had no answer to it.

* * *

 _Thursday, Dec. 11th_

Snow was falling again. White and pure as stars, it drifted down from the night, passing through the clouded sky and onto the earth: a trillion tiny diamonds of delicately detailed ice.

Walking home from work, Fifi crossed the next block, adoring the night as the white flakes fell gently around her, a few onto her little pink nose. The way forward was alight with changing traffic lights, halos formed around light poles, and glowing neon from hanging signs off the old, darkened buildings. There was hardly a soul out on this winter night. In fact, the only car Fifi saw pass by was, from her brief glimpse of it, one that was packed with snow-covered luggage on the car's roof. This put Fifi in the thought of tourists who, from what she clearly heard, were singing a strange combination of "Jingle Bells" and, heaven knows why, "Pop Goes the Weasel."

When she arrived home at the Acme City Dump, Fifi found that her shoveled out path from the fence to her Cadillac was once again covered in white fluff. Shaking her head in amusement, she grabbed the snow shovel resting on the other side of the fence and pushed it on the ground as she walked.

Leaving the shovel against the car's front, Fifi entered her cozy warm pink home and flipped on the radio. The song being played contrasted greatly to her harp's music back at the Country Club. It was a lively jazz number mixed with a familiar Christmas tune, giving Fifi a happy sense for the holidays as well as relaxation while she put together a late dinner.

It wasn't until she finished eating that Fifi looked outside the now damp, icy car window and saw that her mailbox's flag was sticking up. With a sigh at forgetting so common a daily task, she stepped outside at a quick run and stopped by the mailbox, its post sticking out from the center of an old whitewall tire.

Pushing the flag down, she opened the box's metal flap. There was a single white envelope resting inside.

Fifi normally didn't get mail from anyone other than her parents, and that usually only happened once every month. So, it came as no surprise that the envelope inside the mailbox showed her parents' return address as well as a hefty number of postmarks, one of which was from Paris, France.

Back in her warm Cadillac, Fifi brushed a few snowflakes off her purple fur and sat down on the car seat. Ripping the top off the envelope, she pulled out a two-page letter written in familiar hand-writing, all entirely in French.

 _Dear Fifi,_

 _Words cannot describe how proud we were when we watched your performance. If only we could have been there to watch you in person instead of just on the video you sent us._

 _Your singing was simply fabulous. You gave Carmen a real run for her money. Your father and I both know you are not fond of the story, but you can't deny the opera's music is a treat for the ear, and the way you sang it made it a joy forever. Give Pepe our love and thanks for helping you prepare._

 _We do hope Acme Acres is treating you well. Your Cadillac is plenty warm we hope, and we expect you have not tried putting the tires back on and trying to drive it. Ha! Just joking._

 _We do wish you could have taken up school here in France. It would have been great to be closer to each other. But we do know how much you love your city and the friends you made in America. They all sound like very fine toons, especially that cute little pig who took you to the prom._

 _Things in Paris are well. The holidays are bustling about so much at every corner that it is quite impossible to miss. I do not suppose you have heard, but all bottles of Du Coeur have officially sold out on this side of Europe. There is not one bottle left in the entire country, which I find a bit hard to believe, given how expensive it is. People have been placing orders left and right, and the people at Shamel suspect they won't have enough copies ready until next Christmas! It is hard to believe the trouble some people go through just for a simple two-ounce perfume, and without even knowing what it smells like more or less! Silly, non?_

 _Anyway, my darling, we would very much like you to send your reply as soon as you receive this letter. We are dearly hoping you will join your father, sister, and me in Paris on Christmas. We can catch up and spend the last days of the year together. With ACME Fast-Travel, we can have you back in California before the next school term begins. We hope you will consider it; we really miss you._

 _Before I forget, there is one last bit of joyous news I must share._

 _Your little sister has found her very first sweetheart: a poodle boy named Jérôme. You should hear how Gigi giggles when she talks about him. I know it is only puppy love (literally in this case), but you cannot deny that all forms of love are sweet to behold._

 _That is all. Keep safe, do all your school work, and most of all, my darling Fifi, stay happy. You will find your true love someday. Sometimes all it takes is a_ _closer_ _look._

 _With all the love in my heart,_

 _Mother_

 _P.S. - We have enclosed an autographed picture of Johnny Pew for you. We know how big a fan you are and he was in Paris this last November._

The warm comfort Fifi felt from reading her mother's letter vanished as though something cold and slimy had just crawled into her stomach. She picked up the envelope the letter came in and pulled out a professionally shot black and white photo of a handsome skunk, his flawless face staring out at her with very cool and condescending eyes. A very long, bold signature lay at the bottom, printed atop the skunk's leather jacket.

 **J. Pew - to Sweet Cheeks**

Fifi's teeth clenched tighter than a bear trap covered in razor wire. She could only remember feeling angry like this a few times in her life, and one of them being the last time she saw the putrid scoundrel in this picture.

Her hands flexed tightly and crushed the photo. Johnny Pew's face disappeared in the crumpled edges as Fifi continued to strangle the image, her face going red with fury. She crushed it into a ball and, with a huff of rage, threw it into the back of the Cadillac. It landed next to her flower vase amongst the fallen rose petals.

Fifi took a few deep breaths and sat back down, trying to ease her sudden temper.

She had never told her parents about her disastrous and deeply disappointing summer in which she fawned over getting an autograph from Johnny Pew. The memory made Fifi feel so furious it was humiliating. All that time she spent fawning over that foul, despicable rat who held about as much affection as a moldy sock. A whole glorious summer, wasted! As to what her family might think if she told them she had both insulted AND kicked a famous movie star, let alone a fellow skunk, AND let alone a possible boyfriend (the very thought of it now made her retch), Fifi didn't know what to think.

One thing was for certain, though — Fifi's true love was NOT that skunk.

Wanting to wipe the image of Johnny Pew's arrogant mug out of her head, Fifi turned back to the bottom of the letter's second page to focus on what her mother had to say.

Her little sister, Gigi, had found her first love. . . .

Fifi felt her face go red, this time with a mixture of amusement and a twinge of envy. To think, her twelve-year-old sister had found her first boyfriend, when she, Fifi. . . . Sure, it was just puppy love, but still . . . _Fifi_ never had a childhood sweetheart. . . .

She then turned to the last sentence above her mother's signature.

 _Sometimes all it takes is a_ _closer_ _second look_.

Well, that was an understatement, Fifi thought. She had been looking all her life, and how many times had she failed in finding her darling _petit ami_ (boyfriend)? Honestly, she had no idea anymore. Still, it was good, nevertheless, to hear her mother's encouragement. At least she understood how her daughter felt.

Smiling slightly, Fifi glanced over the letter once more, enjoying the soft music coming from her radio as she read.

And then, all of a sudden, Fifi froze while nearing the bottom of the second page. The warm feeling in her stomach showed itself again, and on a most particular sentence.

... _we do know how much you love your city and the friends you made. They all sound like very fine toons, especially..._

Fifi's eyes traveled so slowly over the next few words that she could've sworn time had stopped. The only thing to prove that it hadn't was the snow falling outside.

Placing down the letter, Fifi crawled to the back of her Cadillac and pulled open the bottom drawer from her dresser. She reached inside and extracted a box labeled MEMORIES. She removed the box's lid and grabbed a number of photographs resting inside. Taking a seat, flipped through them.

There was the group photo of her friends the day after _Tiny Toon Adventures_ had officially ended. It had been sweet-sorrow; sad that the show was over, but sweet in how they would go on with their lives, together as friends. Hard to believe it was nearing a year since the day. . . .

She flipped to the next picture: she and her five friends at the beach on Spring Break. The next one: she, Babs, and Shirley at one of their slumber parties, dressed in pajamas and popcorn littering the floor. And on the third, she found it. She placed the other photos down gently and held this one picture in her two hands.

The subjects of this photo were set against a warm blue background. Fifi was wearing a pink and red gown, her periwinkle hair and violet fur softly highlighted and her expression warm and happy. And standing right beside her, looking equally happy, his arm linked with hers, was Hamton, wearing a tuxedo with a pink bowtie and matching sash.

It was their prom picture.

Smiling gently, Fifi's eyes took in every inch of the photo. And suddenly, she was there again. . . .

* * *

 _After two hours of looking herself over in the heart-shaped vanity, Fifi felt confident that she was ready. Her periwinkle hair was brushed and smooth, her gown snug and clean, a new white choker comfortably in place, and her favorite pink bow was resting neatly above her ear as always._

 _And, just to be safe, she grabbed her bottle of Le_ _Élégance and gave herself one tiny spray._

 _She took a deep breath of the flowery scent and turned towards her Cadillac's dashboard. The radio's clock read six o'clock. The sun had gone down only a while ago and the night's first stars were already revealing themselves in the darkening blue sky._

 _Though the prom wouldn't officially start until seven, and though she knew there was still plenty of time, Fifi couldn't help but feel nervous. What if Hamton had changed his mind? What if he, like the rest of the boys at school, was too frightened at the idea of taking a skunk to the prom?_

 _The idea made Fifi's heart heavy with dread._

 _The previous weeks at school had been riddled with disappointment and frustration. Fifi walked the hallways as boys went here and there, asking out girls, yet none had the nerve or wish to ask her. More than once she had approached a boy, and before she could so much as say "Bonjour", every single one turned from her in fright — heck, one even transferred to Perfecto Prep. It was, quite literally, "Le sighs" all around._

 _But then, at the end of the final week, just when Fifi had lost hope and earnestly called the prom "phooey", Hamton popped the question after finally building up the courage._

 _Feeling her cheeks burn, Fifi was brought back to the present abruptly as someone began knocking on her Cadillac's door._

 _She opened it._

 _"Hamton!" she cried, beaming with happiness. "Oh, bless all of France! You came."_

 _"Of course, I did. I've been thinking of this night ever since I asked you," said Hamton, his cheeks a delightful tint of red. "You look wonderful, Fifi."_

 _"As do you," she said sincerely, eyeing over the finely dressed pig. Though Hamton was undeniably plump, there was a_ _charm_ _to his roundness_ _that Fifi found adorable. He really did fill out his tuxedo nicely._

 _"I, uh, brought you a corsage," said Hamton bashfully._

 _He held out the mini bouquet and Fifi felt her eyes go wet. The flower's petals were perfect and so vibrant they almost glowed. Its fragrance wasn't powerful, but gentle — a delightful tickle, like a kiss on the cheek._

 _It was the first flower any boy had ever given Fifi. . . ._

 _She allowed Hamton to fasten it to her wrist, and then, holding out his hand, she took it. With her other hand holding the_ _hem of_ _her gown's skirt, Fifi stepped out of the car. Hand in hand, she and Hamton set off together down the sidewalk and towards the school. All the while, she couldn't help but giggle at how much he was blushing._

* * *

Every moment of that night returned to Fifi in vivid detail as she sat in her Cadillac, right where it all started. She and Hamton had been among the first to arrive at the Prom. She and him drank some punch, then took the time to enjoy the details brought on by the decorating committee before meeting up with their friends. Besides the one little bump Hamton and the other boys had, spluttering over Mitsy (the unusually attractive impromptu date of Dizzy Devil), the night had been beyond wonderful. Fifi laughed at how she, Hamton, and her other friends all did a round of Buster's dance. Though awkward at first, it caught on quick. And everything afterwards. . .

Fifi closed her eyes and smiled, savoring the feeling, the memory, and the one who made it all possible for her.

She placed the photograph on top of the stack of her other memories and sealed them back in their box. She remained seated with her arms wrapped around her knees, her mind stirring with confusing thoughts. There were far too many for her sleep on.

That night with Hamton. . . . Fifi couldn't deny Prom Night being the happiest she had felt in a long time. It was a day she and Hamton shared together with their friends. The six of them all began hanging out more after that night and well on after Tiny Toons was taken off the air. Thinking back to Professor Fudd's lesson about cause and effect, Fifi couldn't help but smirk. Perhaps it was Prom Night that helped begin a lasting friendship, which also brought Fifi to sit down in her Cadillac on this night, thinking all of this. . . .

Then, without warning, Fifi's mind took her back again:

Hamton — walking her home. Hamton — taking in Furrball. Hamton — working hard to raise money. Hamton — giving her a flower. . . .

Fifi let off a loud groan and fell backward onto one of her many heart-shaped pillows.

Why, in the name of Animation, did these thoughts keep popping up? Why did she feel so thankful to Hamton for being there to walk her home and cheer her up last Friday? Any of her other friends would've done the very same thing, had she not urged them off on their dates. And _what_ was this warmth she felt? It was obviously more than just a physical feeling, but how could it be an emotion? Fifi had always been good at interpreting emotions, but this . . . this was different. . . .

And then, like a slap to the face, Fifi thought of something else . . . . something very different indeed.

She sat up slowly on her heart-shaped pillow. She was gazing out the window of her Cadillac, but she wasn't watching the falling snow, she wasn't looking at anything at all as Plucky's blunt question rang again through her ears:

... _does your dream date necessarily_ have _to be a skunk?_

Acting purely on her thoughts, Fifi reached over and grabbed her mother's letter.

 _Sometimes all it takes is a_ _closer_ _look_.

"A closer look," Fifi mouthed wordlessly.

The idea that formed from all of this floated in Fifi's mind like a strange but intriguing painting, one she wanted a closer look at.

Fifi glanced to her car's dashboard, and saw that the radio read 10:00. Definitely time for bed.

She folded up her mother's letter and placed it, along with her box of photos, back in her bottom dresser where she kept all the messages from her family.

After brushing her teeth, Fifi picked up the crumpled photo of Johnny Pew, pulled the totally wilted roses from their vase, and stepped outside for the last time that night. She tossed the photo and dead roses into a nearby, snow-filled trashcan, then returned to the warmth of her pink Cadillac. She silenced the radio, tucked under her blankets, and, resting her head on a heart-shaped pillow, she fingered the few remaining red flower petals.

Her thoughts began to slow down. She will ask tomorrow at school. She will give this thought, this idea, a closer look. She wasn't too worried. After all, the worst Hamton could say was 'no.'

But, now that Fifi thought of it . . . that was exactly right. . . .

* * *

 **All comments, positive or negative, are welcome.**


	18. Pigs, Fish, and Cats

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

 _Pigs, Fish, and Cats_

 _~Dec. 11th~_

At around 4:00, Hamton and Furrball walked out from the grocery store and back into the cold afternoon, a loaded plastic bag in each hand. Hamton, carrying most of the cans, fruits, vegetables, and the gallon of milk, scolded himself for forgetting his Acme Jumbo-Storage duffel bag at home.

"Of all the days to forget it," he muttered with annoyance, his fingers straining painfully under the load.

The bag's thin handles continued to sink into his palms as he and Furrball progressed down the city street. This added to the already numbing bite the cold wind gave every time it came about, though thankfully it wasn't _too_ windy today in Acme Acres.

Crossing the snow-free intersection, Hamton soon heard the distinctive ringing of a brass bell. The familiar chime grew in clarity with each step, and Hamton and Furrball knew immediately what it was. Sure enough, standing outside the doors to Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor was a bell ringer for the Salvation Army, diligently gathering donations next to a bright red pail.

With a twinge of a guilt, Hamton walked past Frosty's without giving the ringer so much as a quarter. It wasn't simply because he didn't want to put down his groceries to dig for change and then suffer in having to pick up the bags again; he honestly, truly would've liked to donate to the noble charity. The sad, simple truth, however, was that he couldn't part with so much as a dollar, given how things had recently become for him.

"It's okay, Furrball," he reassured, noticing that his friend looked guilty too. "We'll donate to them next time."

They continued on, Furrball looking slightly less ashamed, though Hamton didn't know whether he had really meant what he said or merely wanted to spare his roommate's feelings.

Letting out a quiet sigh that turned to vapor on the cold winter air, Hamton readjusted the handles of the plastic bags in his hand, thinking back to the bell ringer, as well as the shaggy blue cat walking beside him.

As his friends had predicted, and perhaps what Hamton knew all along, allowing Furrball to live in his house didn't come without a little extra weight. For the last few days, Hamton noticed that his fridge and food pantry had emptied a little faster than usual. Being someone who enjoyed a snack here and there (often several times a day), he usually went through his food at a slightly accelerated pace. But with Furrball staying with him, this eating cycle had become somewhat stinted. They had already gone shopping this past Tuesday just to get half the groceries they needed, and they just depleted the last of this week's grocery check to fully restock the pantry at home.

As a result to all of this, Hamton had gone to bed the last three nights with his stomach rumbling because he only allowed himself one helping at dinner. This, he knew, was both positive as well as negative. For one, Hamton felt happy that he was trying to go without stuffing his face more than usual, but, then again, he couldn't say eating only one serving was very fun.

Perhaps it was just because he was a pig that he wanted more food; It was in their nature, after all, to be heavy devourers. . . .

Silently bemoaning how his meals were minimized by having a second person live with him, Hamton sighed again and was just about to cross the street when, out of nowhere, a strong huff of winter wind blew right into his face.

Hamton flinched and shook his head. The frosty burst had hit him like a punch.

Furrball meowed with concern. The sound seemed to jolt Hamton awake to the bright light of day. He turned around and gazed at his friend — at the cat who was wearing a second-hand coat and who truly looked worried for him. The gentleness of his look, along with the continued ringing of the Salvation Army bell, seemed to clear Hamton's mind.

Gripping his grocery bags tight, he frowned in determination, feeling angry with himself. What was he complaining about? He was fine, he told himself sternly. One serving was all he or anyone needed. Any feeling of hunger afterwards was just his stomach acting like an immature kid. His stomach wasn't the boss of him!

Somewhere inside his brain, Hamton could've sworn he heard a snort of laughter.

 _...All right, fair point_ , Hamton thought dryly to his inner critic. Through most of _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , his stomach _had_ been the unofficial boss of him, but it's been practically a year now since the show ended. Things had changed; Hamton was a different pig. He didn't need to eat three servings anymore. What was more, he had a friend who needed him, a friend who had gone so long without shelter or warmth, let alone three hot meals a day. And to think — Hamton had the nerve to complain about eating _one_ serving.

Once finished with this mental criticism, Hamton found that he and Furrball had reached the last city block neighboring the forest. And right on the corner was another Salvation Army member, ringing the famous bell.

"Furrball, wait," Hamton said abruptly, stopping in front of the bell ringer.

He placed his groceries down gently on the cold concrete, a dusting of snow blending with the white plastic. The relief on his hands was immediate. Reaching into his coat pocket, Hamton grabbed the loose change he received at the grocery store and deposited the coins into the red pail. They fell in with a light clatter.

"Thank you, young man," said the bell ringer. "Happy Holidays."

"Happy Holidays," Hamton and Furrball said together, one with words, the other with meows.

Picking up his groceries, Hamton left the block with Furrball and stepped out onto the snow-covered country road. As they walked, he saw Furrball look in his general direction several times before looking back to the way they were heading. He looked uncertain and even a little sad, a look Hamton remembered seeing when they were buying groceries.

"Hey, Furrball?"

"Meow?"

"I just want to let you know, I'm very thankful for you helping me. You know, with all these jobs and raising money. Fifi's gift would probably be impossible to get if you weren't here. So . . . thanks. And don't look so sad every time we wash the dishes," he added, to which Furrball looked at him in question. "Furrball, you're staying with me. I have to make sure you're well fed. You've had it rough for a long time, so sparing some food is no loss on my part. Seriously, I can make it by with just one helping. And, with all due respect, Furrball," Hamton added with a chuckle, "I could probably stand to lose a few pounds. Might make me look better for Fifi."

Just as Hamton's imagination began to form the mad idea of him being thin and hearing Fifi's smitten compliments, his attention turned back to Furrball, who meowed something and pointed at the bag in Hamton's right hand.

"Yeah, I agree," said Hamton. "I think it will be a good idea to eat more vegetables and fruits. They come much cheaper, plus they'll fill us up better and help deal with those cravings between meals."

They walked farther down the road, feeling a frosty breeze that was less numbing now and more refreshing with the evening sunlight. Inhaling this fresh air, Hamton felt more confident and proud in deciding to let Furrball stay with him. And from what he could tell, he thought Furrball looked cheerful too.

"Speaking of meals, Furrball," Hamton said on a sudden thought, "what would you like for dinner?"

Furrball opened his mouth to meow his suggestion, but before he could, he stopped in his tracks. He was looking at something with clear surprise on his furry face.

Hamton turned, and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

They had arrived back home. Everything about it was exactly the same as from this morning, except for one little detail. . .

In the normally empty driveway, there was a parked car. Its trunk and backside were covered in travel stickers and its roof was piled with three layers of luggage, all tied down haphazardly with ropes that looked strained to breaking.

Furrball looked to Hamton, curious for an answer, but Hamton couldn't find his voice. His mind had suddenly returned to last week.

He had forgotten all about it, had forgotten they were coming. . . .

Stepping up to the front door, the numbness in his bag-filled hands now totally ignored, Hamton could hear talking coming from inside the house.

Reaching for the doorknob, his hand still holding his plastic bag, he turned the handle, knowing full well that it was no longer locked. He pushed the door open and walked inside.

At once, a sweet and excited voice rang out. "Ah, there you are, Hamton, sweetie!"

Hamton dropped his groceries onto the entryway floor with a clatter as he was lifted off his feet and wrapped in a tight hug as kiss after kiss after kiss was pressed onto his cheeks.

"Oh – uh – hi, Mom," Hamton said through his mother's kisses. "Good to - see you."

When she finally had her fill of her son's cheeks, Hamton's mother let him back down.

"Ah, you've were out buying groceries," said Winnie in a sweet, honeyed tone. "That's my responsible little man!" And to Hamton's growing embarrassment, his mother pinched his cheek. Cringing, he glanced to Furrball, who was looking the other way with the resolute appearance of one trying not to smirk. For this attempt, Hamton was very thankful.

Winnie Pig looked exactly as she had since Hamton last saw his mother. She was slightly chubby, but not nearly enough to be called portly. A pink bandana was wrapped around her head, hiding most of her blonde hair, and, as expected, she was still wearing her sunglasses which she never, ever took off (except for when she slept).

From behind Winnie approached a wide, heftier man, wearing a bucket hat, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and a 35-millimeter camera swinging from a strap around his neck.

"Hey, son," greeted Wade Pig, giving his son a hearty handshake. "Great to see ya'."

"Same here, Dad," said Hamton, smiling and trying not to feel awkward.

He had completely forgotten his parent's phone calls last week about them coming over to visit. After so much time working, thinking of Fifi, _and_ having Furrball come to live with him, Hamton had no time to think about anything else, _including_ how he was going to explain Furrball to his parents.

Sure enough, though, the two adults looked over his shoulder to the blue cat, smiling rather timidly.

"Oh, hello," said Winnie in a friendly voice. "Who's your little friend, Hamton?"

"Oh, uh," said Hamton, fighting to find his tongue, "this is Furrball, Mom. He's in my year at school."

"Well, it's a delight to meet you," said Winnie, shaking Furrball's hand, who, in turned, meowed a greeting.

"Put her there, my good man," said Wade happily, and he too shook Furrball's hand, who politely returned the gesture.

While Furrball looked perfectly happy and Wade and Winnie delighted at their guest, Hamton stood frozen with dread. He had just realized something . . . something about the situation that, if found out, could mean very, _very_ big trouble.

"It's so good of you to help Hamton carry home his groceries, Furrball, dear." Winnie turned to face her son. "Hamton, why didn't you take your Jumbo-Storage Bag?"

"Huh?" said Hamton, coming out of his uncomfortable pondering. "Oh! I-I forgot it at home when I left for school today," he said, fighting down his nervousness.

Winnie shook her head in sad amusement. "Oh, Hamton. You really should've written yourself a note. But, no biggie. I'm sure you'll remember next time. In the meantime, I hope you're hungry, dear. Your father and I picked up everything we need for a nice big dinner, so you don't have to worry about it cutting into your food for the week."

Hamton gave only a mild grin. Normally, whenever he heard the words, "nice big dinner," his smile would be able to light up a room. But due to the situation involving Furrball, he felt as though his throat were clenching from the inside, making each intake of breath heavier than the last.

"Speaking of dinner," said Wade, and his eyes fell back to Furrball. "What do you say about sticking around and having a bite or two with us, Furrball?"

Wade and Winnie looked expectantly at the cat, who looked at Hamton with the slightest trace of awkwardness. No doubt he was thinking the exact same thing Hamton was.

Winnie apparently took this hesitancy for modesty. "Oh, it's no trouble at all, dearie. We always cook more than needed with these meals, so we'll have more than enough for another person."

Furrball looked back to Hamton, who nodded vigorously, his teeth clenched with nervousness, and meowed in agreement.

"Oh, wonderful!" said Winnie, clapping her hands together. "Well, I better start getting the food ready. I hope you like salmon, Furrball."

Furrball's eyes widened at these words. To Hamton's astonishment and laughter, Furrball sank to the carpet as though his muscles had gone weak, smiling dreamily with a short fit of giggles.

Wade let out a hearty laugh, "That's a 'yes' if I ever saw one!"

"Hamton, sweetie, would you like to help out?" asked Winnie. "I know how much you love cooking."

"Sure thing, Mom," said Hamton. "I just need to take care of something in my room and then I'll meet you in the kitchen. Furrball, will you come and help, please? Furrball?"

Furrball snapped out of his drooling, fish-filled daydream and meowed something that Hamton took to mean as, "Sure."

"Okay. Be right back, Mom and Dad."

Hamton made a beeline for his room with Furrball following from behind, when Wade happily said, "Don't take too long, son. We got a lot of catching up to do."

"Sure, Dad," Hamton called back, and without wasting another second, he hurried and closed his bedroom door shut the instant he and Furrball were inside.

" _Oh, this is bad_!" Hamton exclaimed, gripping his head in his hands. "Why didn't I think of this earlier?!"

Alarmed, Furrball meowed, "Huh?"

"Furrball," said Hamton, keeping his voice down to a dull panic so his parents wouldn't hear, "I haven't told my parents about you staying with me. I forgot they were coming over to visit this week!" He began to pace his bedroom nervously, Furrball watching every step he took.

"Oh, what will they do if they find out?" Hamton dreaded aloud, his feet moving of their own nervous accord. "Will they be mad? Happy? Think I'm crazy?"

At these words, Hamton's mind flooded with scenarios, each making him feel worse for wear:

 _"You brought a homeless person into our house?_ Wade growled, going red-faced. _What, you think we're running a fancy motel or something?"_

 _"Oh, sweetie, were so proud of you!_ Winnie said sweetly. _But I'm afraid we're going to have to murder you now for making such a bold and reckless decision without our consent."_

 _"Hamton, don't you watch TV? You know what inviting strangers into your house leads to!"_

 _"Have you given_ any _thought to what will happen_ after _winter's over? How could you be so careless?"_

It was like being reminded all over again of what Buster and the others said at school, only this time it felt much more serious. Hamton's friends may understand and be approving, but these were his parents he was talking about: two adults who would certainly see the matter more drastically than six teenagers.

Gripping his bedpost, Hamton glanced back over at Furrball who looked truly nervous now, though not nearly as much as Hamton.

Hamton took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying and struggling to keep calm. What will happen if his parents learn the real reason why Furrball was here? They only met him five minutes ago and already they were treating him with very friendly spirits. Will that change if they find out he's homeless? Now that Hamton thought about it, he wasn't sure what his parents thought of homeless people in general. Surely, they wouldn't mind; after all, weren't they the ones who taught Hamton to treat everyone how he would like to be treated and to always try and do the right thing? Wasn't giving Furrball shelter and keeping him out of the bitter cold considered the right thing to do?

Fifi and the others certainly thought so, but again, this yields the question: would his _parents_ think letting Furrball stay under Hamton's roof for an uncertain amount of time be thought of as 'the right thing'? What if they didn't? What if they get angry and force Furrball to leave? This was their house after all, regardless that they spend most of their time away from it.

Hamton swallowed a particularly thick mass of air and glanced up again at Furrball, who had stepped closer to him in the time he had been thinking.

The blue cat patted Hamton on the shoulder and gave a meaningful look that said, "It'll be all right."

Hamton couldn't help but smile at his friend. Furrball had a lot more to lose than he did, but Furrball wasn't allowing panic to get the better of him. And you know what? He's right. What good would worrying do anybody?

"Yeah..." said Hamton, his confidences becoming steady. "Yeah, you're probably right, Furrball. We'll just have to try and stray off the subject as to what we're doing if they ask us, okay? It's also a good thing we don't have any jobs today. It would've been a shame to miss one of my mom's meals." And at this thought, Hamton felt slightly more confident. "Seriously, Furrball, just you wait. When you try my mother's cooking, you might very well die from how delicious it is."

* * *

With the groceries stocked away in the pantry and fridge, the next hour went by with Hamton carving and slicing up a pineapple. Close by, Furrball was peeling carrots as Winnie mixed together a seasoning to soak with the salmon. More than once, Hamton heard Furrball give a euphoric meow as the ripe scent of fish filled the kitchen.

Wade, meanwhile, was sitting at the table, adding some new pictures to the most recent family photo album.

"You sure you wouldn't like me to help, honey?" Wade asked.

"Oh, yes, dear," Winnie answered politely. "I think it's safe to say when it comes to cooking, you're probably better left to taste testing."

Laughing gently, Wade admitted, "Yeah, you're probably right. Our beach house _definitely_ knows that. It's probably still coughing up smoke from when I tried to make dinner that night."

All in all, Hamton thought everything was going well so far. No awkward questions had yet to be asked, and if they could just get through tonight, he and Furrball would both be in the clear. His parents would be none the wiser and no harm would be done.

Almost as though this thought became tangible through some devious act of karma, Winnie asked the first of what would soon become many questions.

"So, Furrball," she said, sprinkling some thyme into her mixing bowl, "I take it you and Hamton just became friends? Normally it's Plucky or someone else when we see Hamton."

Furrball meowed an agreeing gesture.

"Huh?" asked Winnie.

"Uh, actually, Mom," said Hamton at the cutting board, "me and Furrball have been friends for quite a long time. We just haven't hung out together as much. I mean, we were friendly to each other, but we didn't start doing anything until about a week ago."

"I see," said Winnie, stirring together the spices and olive oil. "But you're still friends with the others we've seen, right? Buster, Babs, and Plucky?"

"Of course I am, Mom. _Tiny Toons_ may be over, but we're still as close as ever. In fact, I spent last Saturday with all of them down at the Mall."

"Oh, wonderful!" Winnie said dotingly. "It's so good to hear you're not cooped up here all by yourself."

Winnie turned back to her marinade, and, while she wasn't looking, Hamton and Furrball shared a quick awkward look, before they got back to cutting and peeling.

"Hey, Winnie, dear?" asked Wade at the table. "Do you remember which album held our last vacation photos? I want to sort our Florida and Iceland pics."

"I think it should be on the far right shelf in the living room, dear," Winnie answered.

"Okay, thanks." Wade stood up and walked out of the kitchen and into the next room.

A moment passed with the cutting of knives and a whisk stirring in a metal bowl before Wade reappeared in the doorway.

"Hey, son?" he asked in a curious tone.

"Yeah, Dad?" Hamton replied, not looking up as he continued to slice pineapple.

"Have you been sleeping on the couch?" Wade questioned.

Hamton froze and dropped the knife onto the kitchen floor. His heart had fallen into his stomach like a lead anchor.

"Hamton!" said Winnie, startled, dropping her own whisk. "Are you all right!

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Yeah, fine!" Recovering quickly from the moment's surprise, Hamton hurried to pick up the knife and rushed over to rinse it in the sink.

 _Stupid, stupid!_ he thought resentfully. He had forgotten about Furrball's bed! How could he have? How often did a large pillow and a blanket lay on a couch unless someone was sleeping there?

Knowing well that his father would just ask the question again if he didn't answer, Hamton cleared his throat and turned from the sink. As Hamton eyes moved towards his father, they stopped for the briefest second on Furrball and, in that moment, he and Furrball fully understood to go along with whatever was going to be said.

"Uh, actually, Dad," said Hamton, choosing his words with the utmost care, "I let Furrball stay over last night."

"On a school night?" asked Wade, an eyebrow arched.

"Uh . . . I needed help with a few things. You know . . . this and that."

Wade stared inquiringly at him, and, to Hamton's nervousness, so did Winnie. Furrball went back to peeling carrots, though he looked as nervous as Hamton felt; The carrot he was peeling was soon whittled down to something that resembled an orange pencil.

Just as Hamton's throat started to go dry and sweat began to form, Wade finally shrugged, "Well, that's nice." He then chuckled. "Actually, I'm quite proud. Never thought you'd want to have a slumber party, son."

"Well . . . you know. . ." Hamton said awkwardly, wishing more than anything that this would be all, because he had not the faintest idea of what more he would be able to say. He hated having to keep a secret from his parents, let alone lie about something. Though, technically, he wasn't really lying . . . not completely. Furrball _had_ slept over last night. Hamton just didn't tell his father the reason _why_ he staid over.

"How are those pineapples coming, Hamton?" asked Winnie, picking her whisk up off the counter and walking over to check on the sliced yellow fruit rings. "Almost enough. Just finish up that half and that should be good. Oh, and Furrball, that'll be enough carrots, dear," Winnie added, noting that Furrball's orange pile was now stacked halfway up to the ceiling.

* * *

With all the carrots and pineapples sliced, Winnie left the salmon to marinate in her thyme and garlic mixture, and now stood at a tub in the kitchen's middle, humming with Hamton and Furrball as the three of them peeled potatoes.

Around the time the sun had set, Winnie placed the salmon into the oven to bake, which gave time for everyone to relax a little before dinner. Wade and Winnie sat on the couch and chuckled over the photos of their last trip together, leaving Hamton and Furrball to the quiet of Hamton's bedroom so they could read up on Cartoon Karma for tomorrow's class.

Between every other paragraph, however, Hamton found his mind darting back to that awkward moment in the kitchen. It had been a very close call with his parents noticing the couch being made into a makeshift bed. Hamton removed the pillow and blankets and brought them back into his room, reassuring Furrball that he would put the bed back together as soon as his parents left.

For now, he and Furrball savored the aroma of baking salmon while reading a few passages from their books, which, surprisingly, were pretty interesting.

 _. . .Just as stepping forward propels the walker forward and the earth backwards, a step in the right direction may sometimes best be taken by walking backwards to where you started, propelling the earth forward, and trying again until you find the most agreeable path._

 _. . .a lie will usually lead to so many knots, the liar may find him/herself tangled and fall flat by their own two feet. . ._

 _. . .When hunting a rabbit and the rascally creature stops you just as you're about to fire, take a second to consider: one, you can let him distract you and allow yourself to fall into a disastrous — albeit humorous — situation, or two, you can just shoot and spend the rest of your life wondering in obsessive, teeth-grinding madness of what could've been._

 _A third alternative is to not go hunting at all, and thus not experience anything at all. But where's the fun in that?_

 _And remember the most important fact: cause and effect. What something means to you will often mean something different to everyone else. What you do and what you receive is often a reflection of what is done for others as much as yourself. When in doubt, always remember: every life moves the world._

"Boys!" Winnie called in a sing-songy voice. "Dinner!"

Their faces alight, Hamton and Furrball both dropped their books and rushed to the kitchen where a beautiful sight was laid out on the table. Christmas may have come early.

Winnie had brought out a fancy table cloth so that the surface was pure white. A pair of candles laid lit near the center, and around this was a large platter of steaming, sweet scented salmon, topped with pineapple slices and baked carrots on the side. There were soft dinner rolls in a basket and a huge bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes near another bowl with steaming brown gravy.

Furrball cried true tears of joy at the sight.

"Oh, Furrball, what are you hesitating for?" said Winnie joyfully, noticing his tears, "Don't stand and let yourself starve. Dig in, everyone!"

No one needed telling twice.

The next fifteen minutes that passed were of blissful, happy eating. The salmon's meat was juicy yet soft, garlicy with a tingle of sweetness from the pineapple. Mashed potatoes, gravy, and buttered carrots melted on the tongue, and the rolls allowed not a single morsel or drop to be left on the plate.

Hamton sighed as he finished his helping. There really was nothing quite like sitting down to eat good food.

Furrball seemed lost to paradise, as though nothing existed except him, the salmon, and the dreamy smile on his face as he savored every single bite.

As the two boys ate, Wade and Winnie told them of their most recent business trips, most taking place in exotic locations.

"Oh, remember, dear," said Winnie, "about that trip to Texas, where we met that delightful lumberjack?"

"Oh, yeah," said Wade with a chuckle. "That guy just loved swinging that chainsaw. If only he tried cutting more trees with it, though. Waste of gas. . . ."

"And remember that time down in Florida, when we stopped at that All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet Resort?"

"Oh, do I?" beamed Wade. "Everything there was _delicious_! And the people were so nice, too. They carried us straight out the door and tossed us right next to our car when we finished. A fine meal _and_ friendly service. Five-star pamphlet right there, I'll tell you. Although," Wade added on a different note, "they might want to think of investing in some landing pads. They dropped us a bit too hard on the asphalt."

Hamton laughed at a few of these stories and raised his eyebrows at others, though not a single detail was boring. Furrball thought so too, though he might still have been lost in his fish-flavored daydream to hear everything that was being said.

Finally, as Winnie picked up the plater again, Hamton's attention returned.

"Another helping, Hamton?" asked Winnie, holding out the salmon.

"Maybe just a little more," Hamton said, and he forked a half piece onto his plate along with some carrots and another roll.

"You sure you don't want more, son?" asked Wade, eyeing Hamton with surprise.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he responded kindly. "This will be enough." In truth, Hamton knew his stomach definitely had room for a bit more than what he just put on his plate, but again he reminded himself of what he thought about this afternoon: how his stomach wasn't the boss of him, that he could go with just one serving. This being a family meal and with plenty to eat, he would allow himself a little more than usual, but not enough to really pig out (no pun intended).

"How about you, Furrball?" asked Winnie, holding the platter towards him. "Still hungry?"

Furrball nodded eagerly and scooped a whole new slice onto his plate. Though his cat belly was somewhat distended beneath the table, Furrball showed that he had no problems with full second helpings.

"That a boy!" said Wade, taking a bite off his own plate. "I won't deny, I like to see a boy who can handle an extra mouthful." Turning to Hamton, he quickly added, "But I am also proud, Hamton, that you're trying to watch how much you eat. That's very good discipline, especially for a pig."

"I'm proud, too, Hamton," said Winnie, her honeyed tone never faltering. "But why shy away? Salmon is very good for you. Full of . . . uh, what is it they called it, dear?"

"Omega-3, honey," Wade responded. "Not to mention it has plenty of protein. Not to mention the taste is just _excellent_ , compared to how little taste other fish have."

Everyone took a few bites into their second helpings before Winnie asked, "So, Hamton. Let's catch up a little. What have you been up to lately? Besides school, I mean?"

Swallowing, Hamton said, "I've been keeping busy, you know. Just hanging out with friends, doing homework, doing a few jobs to raise money for a gift."

"Really?" asked Wade. "May I ask for who?"

Hamton swallowed and chocked a little, his salmon having only been halfway chewed. Taking a sip of juice to clear his throat, Hamton replied, "Oh . . . well, I have a good friend and I want to try and get her something really —"

Wade's smile grew wider. "Oh, ho! 'Her', huh?" He gave a great, hearty laugh. "Have you finally found yourself a girlfriend, son?"

Hamton could feel his cheeks going red. Gripping his fork, he said, "Well, no, not-uh, not really. I haven't really . . .t-told her or-or anything. . ."

What was he doing? His parents didn't need to know these kinds of things! They would never stop talking about it if they knew!

"Oh, Hamton, sweetie," said Winnie endearingly. "You don't have to be embarrassed talking about a girl you like. It's perfectly fine to have a crush on someone."

Hamton felt his appetite ebbing away. Putting down the fork, he rubbed his hands down face; it was just as warm as the fish lying on his plate.

Sighing, knowing his family would just keep asking if he didn't respond, Hamton said, "Well . . . y-yeah, there's . . . there is a girl I like."

"Oh, how adorable!" Winnie said with overblown sweetness. And, making Hamton shrink even lower in his seat, Winnie accurately guessed, "Is she that cute skunk girl you took to prom? The one with the adorable French accent and the giant fluffy tail?"

"Now, Winnie," said Wade warily. "We don't really need to know everything, okay? That's Hamton's business. He'll let us know when he's ready."

Hamton smiled with undying thanks towards his father. He may very well start glowing at the rate his cheeks were burning.

"Oh, all right," said Winnie stubbornly. Crossing her arms, she teasingly said, "Killjoy," to which Wade chuckled.

Furrball, who had been watching all of this, broke his usual silence with a hiccup.

"Hmm," said Wade thoughtfully. "From what I've come to learn, a hiccup at the table usually means someone's just enjoyed a very good meal."

 _Or has eaten their food a little too fast_ , Hamton thought, though he couldn't blame Furrball for liking the food.

Furrball placed his fork down onto his now empty plate and gave a very satisfied nod.

"We're so glad you could join us for dinner, Furrball," said Winnie. "It's not often we have a guest join us. Me and Wade usually move around so much that we're lucky to be able to meet up and get to know anyone. Still, though we don't see it all that often, Acme Acres is still our home and, with our son being here, the one place we would choose above all others." Winnie gave Hamton an affectionate look, which didn't embarrass Hamton at all, regardless of Furrball sitting next to him.

"What about you, Furrball?" asked Winnie, holding her hands together and resting her head on them, "what is life like for you here in Acme Acres?"

The kitchen went quiet.

Any appetite Hamton had left vanished in the fraction of a second. He couldn't tell, but he also bet his face lost any trace of color as he looked anxiously to his feline friend.

Furrball, his mouth full from a dinner roll, went very still, motionless except for his eyes as they blinked and darted around. Even his hiccups had vanished (due to nerves no doubt).

How many seconds passed like this, Hamton didn't know. Eventually the silence was broken by Furrball giving a very hard swallow.

With a look of unease, Furrball raised his paws and started meowing words that didn't sound like anything close to words, though Hamton thought they hinted towards "I've lived here and there."

Winnie and Wade stared at him, then at Hamton.

"You, uh, mind translating that for us, son?" asked Wade.

Hamton looked to Furrball, who gave him a look that plainly said, "Just say anything that sounds convincing!"

"Oh . . . um, Furrball says he's been here and there around Acme Acres," said Hamton, smiling nervously.

"Oh!" said Winnie excitedly. "You've moved around several times, Furrball?"

Furrball nodded.

"Is there any place you liked better than the others?" asked Wade with interest. "I've always wondered if living in the city is all it's cracked up to be — compared to living _outside_ it, I mean."

Furrball lifted his paws and made a gesture that looked like a scale weighing two equally measured objects.

"No favorite?" asked Wade. "Hmm. . . . Well, the city's not too bad, I guess. I remember a weekend when me and Winnie stayed at the Acme City Hotel. Very good service, except for what happened that one night. . . ." Wade stared off into space as though remembering something he would rather forget. "We were on the fourth floor and we woke up early one night to hear a cat searching through trashcans. I didn't get a good look at him but . . . he . . ."

Wade stopped and glanced back at Furrball, who had a bead of sweat running down the side of his furry head.

"Wade, dear, what is it?" asked Winnie curiously.

Waded looked in the direction of the living room, remembering the couch where the pillow and blanket had been. "Wait a minute. . ."

Furrball and Hamton were gritting their teeth with worry now, both feeling like they had just fallen into very dangerous waters.

Wade turned back and stared so hard, Hamton felt his heart pulsing in his throat. His lungs were straining from the lack of oxygen; he was surely going to die of nervousness.

Finally, Wade spoke, but when he did, it wasn't at all what Hamton expected.

Wade started to laugh with a hand on his face. It grew in volume every few seconds.

"Honey?" asked Winnie, looking a little concerned. "Are you okay?"

"HA-HA. Oh-HA, s-sorry, Winnie, HA-HA!" said Wade between his chuckles. "I'm fine. It's just, for a moment I thought Furrball — but how can that be the same cat? I mean—HA HA HA!"

He continued to laugh heartily with his eyes closed, which prevented him from seeing the expressions on Hamton and Furrball's faces as they both breathed with relief. When Wade finally laughed himself hoarse, Winnie cleared her throat.

"Well, I don't know about you three fine men but I am stuffed," she said, dropping her fork onto her empty plate. "Now, how about we relax and talk for a bit in the living room after we clean up? Then we can all have some dessert. Sound good, boys?"

* * *

 **All comments are welcome, whether positive or constructive.**


	19. The Message and the Photo

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

 _The Message and the Photo_

 _~Dec. 11th~_

Hamton and his father cleaned the dishes while Winnie and Furrball packed away the leftover food. Furrball was ecstatic in hearing that he would be allowed to have as much salmon as he wanted.

"Take all you want, dear," said Winnie kindly. "It'll only go to waste otherwise."

Once the last dish was dried and put away, and every last bite of food sealed and stored in the fridge, Winnie clasped her hands together. "Okay, boys. Now, while we let our stomachs settle a while before dessert, how about we pass the time with a little fun? Oh, Furrball, just wait until you see what kind of entertainment we have."

Furrball meowed something along the lines of, "Movies?"

"Huh?"

"Uh, he asked if it was movies, Mom," Hamton replied.

"Nope. Better!" Winnie said excitedly.

* * *

Hamton couldn't entirely say he enjoyed what his mother had in mind as entertainment when they all entered the living room. He sat in the easy chair, his hand pressed to his annoyed face while Furrball sat with Wade and Winnie on the couch, the three of them looking through photo albums of Hamton's early years.

"Oh, and here's when he was being potty trained," said Winnie with a chuckle, pointing at the page. "Remember how you fell in the toilet, Hamton?"

Hamton remained stony faced, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. The only thing that made this humiliation bearable was that Furrball was, at the very least, trying _not_ to laugh, though his stifled chuckles didn't have too much trouble escaping.

"Ah, come on, son," said Wade well-meaningly. "Don't look so crabby. This stuff happened years ago. We all have silly moments like this. True, me and your mother _did_ take pictures of said events and immortalized them for years down the road in which to potentially embarrass you, but come on, what's life if you can't learn to laugh at yourself?"

"A wonderful life?" Hamton dully implied.

"OOOH, I _love_ that movie!" said Winnie eagerly, before she gave a sudden gasp. "But is it okay to say it aloud?"

"I wasn't referring to the movie, Mom," said Hamton, his hand still pressed to his face. "It's not copyright if we say it out of context. And besides, that's only the title."

"Oh, r-right," she said, turning back to the photo album where she pointed at a new memory. "And _this_ one, Furrball, is during our slideshow when we got back home from our summer trip to Happy World Land." She glanced closer at the album and chuckled. "Oh, that Plucky. He sure could make quite the face."

Curious, Hamton got up and walked over to glance at the photograph. In spite of his recent embarrassment, he couldn't help smiling, even though he knew how unwelcome the memory had been for Plucky. While everyone in the photo, Hamton himself included, looked relaxed and eagerly watched the slideshow with fond expressions, Plucky's eyes were bloodshot and tired, his jaw twisted in a manic, fatigued way, his tongue sticking out in a strange fashion: Clearly the signs of someone at the end of his rope. And according to the photo's caption, this moment was captured on Day Five of the Non-Stop slideshow.

"He's a good kid, though," said Wade. "A bit of a talker, but hey, so are we."

Seeing that the following photos were less about his embarrassing childhood, Hamton sat down on the couch beside his mother and joined in on the memory gazing.

When everyone had their fill of photos, Winnie brought out a plate of pecan date bars for dessert. Hamton, feeling quite full from dinner, and remembering his plan to watch how much he ate, took only half a bar. Furrball, however, eagerly took a large one and devoured it after one taste.

He meowed a very pleased phrase.

"Pardon?" asked Winnie.

"He says it's delicious, Mom," Hamton translated.

"Oh, thank you, Furrball," said Winnie kindly. "I have to say, you are the politest guest we've had in a long time."

Furrball smiled and meowed what was a clear, "Thank you."

"So, Hamton," said Wade, swallowing his second date bar and now sounding a little business-like, "you mentioned in your letter to us something about your school having a party on Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah?" Hamton replied.

"Are you still thinking of going?"

"Well . . . yeah, I would like to go," said Hamton offhandedly. "My other friends are thinking of going, and I . . ." his thoughts trailed off to the frequent daydream he kept having of giving Fifi her Christmas gift, of her sweet smile, of her soft arms wrapped around him. . . . Fighting back a blush, he finished "I . . . thought it would be fun to celebrate with them. Why do you ask? Do you and Mom have other plans?"

"Oh, we're just checking ahead of time so we know which times work best, Hamton," Winnie explain. "Your father and me are planning to celebrate with a few relatives and then come home here on Christmas day. So, given that _and_ your party on Christmas Eve, I think our schedules should fit together nicely. You don't mind missing out on Uncle Stinky's place, do you?"

Without needing to think, Hamton answered, "No," at once.

Uncle Stinky was Winnie's brother, and he had the most unsanitary house on the face of the earth (seriously, check the Genius Book of World Records — Cartoon Edition). It was so dirty and so infested that the building and its foundation had to be pulled from the city ground and placed next to a toxic waste dump: the only place that would legally allow the house to remain standing without threat of demolition. And the exterior wasn't even half the damage. The inside. . . Hamton shuddered while thinking of the last time he went into Uncle Stinky's place. The building's very carpet was made up of three inches of thick, consolidated dust.

Though Hamton liked Uncle Stinky very much, he just couldn't stand the idea of spending half a day inside his house, not when he, Hamton, worked so hard to keep his own house free from other such grime and hazardous pollutants.

"Well, that's settled," said Winnie, sound rather glad at Hamton's answer. "I was afraid it was going to take a lot more planning."

"Meh, must be lucky," Wade shrugged. "Well, that's great, Hamton. You'll be able to hang out with your friends AND get to spend time with us. I'll make sure to telephone Stinky and tell the rest of our family that —" he paused and looked over Winnie's shoulder. "Uh, Hamton? You got a message on your phone."

He pointed to the answering machine on the end table beside the couch. Its red light was blinking.

"Huh? I didn't notice that," said Hamton curiously. "Was it there when you guys got here?" he asked his parents.

"Now that I think about it," said Winnie, scratching her head, "yeah. Me and your father came back from the grocery store with the stuff for dinner when we saw it, but we didn't listen to it. It was probably left for you, Hamton."

Smiling at how his parents had shown respect for his privacy, Hamton got up, walked over to the phone, and pressed Play on the answering machine.

"You have one unheard message," came the machine's voice.

There was a beep, and then a girl's voice filled the quiet living room:

 _Hey, Hamton. It's Babs. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you on this, but I asked my Mom and she says she could use some help cleaning our rabbit hole. If this Friday after school works for you, that'll be great. Let me know when we see each other tomorrow morning on our walk to Acme Loo. Oh, and Hamton, once again, me and the others really think its sweet how you took Furrball in when he had nowhere else to go. I, for one, know Fifi is especially impressed. It's getting colder each day and the nights are really harsh with all this frost. So, yeah, Hamton, its really good of you to do that for Furrball. See you tomorrow_.

The message ended with a BEEP, and the living room fell into a dreadful silence.

Hamton seemed to lose the ability to breathe; his throat tightened from the inside and his full stomach now felt completely empty. Very slowly and cautiously, he turned to face his parents and Furrball.

Wade and Winnie's look of shock was worse than anything Hamton could've imagined. Suddenly scared, Furrball got up from the couch and walked back a few steps, away from the adults.

"Hamton?" said Winnie breathlessly, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses. "What did that message mean when it said Furrball had no place to go?"

"Uh. . ." Hamton felt sweat forming on his brow and temples. "It . . . it means. . ."

But Hamton knew there was no point in lying. With the message everyone just heard and Furrball's nervous behavior, it should've been more than obvious what "had nowhere else to go" meant.

Sighing, Hamton lowered his head and admitted, "It means he . . . has no home."

Winnie gave a little gasp. Wade looked too shocked to speak.

This moment of silence weighed on Hamton's pounding heart like an iron weight. The secret was out. His parents knew the truth. What was going to happen now? To Furrball . . . to him?

Furrball was fiddling nervously with his long tail, awaiting the worst that was surely coming.

What will they decide, Hamton wondered? Grounding? Boarding school? Military Academy? The Butcher? Silence like this was surely what awaited the prisoner condemned for execution: unbearable, suffocating, knowing there was no escape, as though the whole world was about to crush you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wade let out a sigh and said, quite calmly, "Furrball. Please go to Hamton's room. We'll call you out when we're finished talking with our son."

With one final hopeless look at Hamton, Furrball turned and trudged out of the living room, his head bowed. As he entered the hall, he ran his paw-like hand over the wall as though thanking the house for his short time here, for the shelter and warmth it had given him.

When the door to Hamton's room opened and closed shut, Wade and Winnie looked at Hamton, not with fury, but with something Hamton couldn't quite read.

"Hamton, how long has Furrball been living with you?" Wade asked steadily.

Finding his breath, Hamton answered, "Since last Sunday."

"Where was he living before?" Winnie asked with worry.

"In an alley, close to the City Dump," he answered, as though he were confessing to a crime. "I'm not sure how long he spent there. Probably since _Tiny Toons_ ended."

A moment's silence, and then, "But . . ." said Winnie, lost for words, "but what about his family?"

At this, Hamton opened his mouth but then closed it. Feeling surprised he had never asked Furrball about this, he replied, "I . . . I don't know. I've never heard Furrball mention _having_ a family before."

"So. . ." said Wade, sound perplexed, "he's been living on his own for. . ."

"Years," Hamton said bluntly. At this, his parents looked rather startled.

"Well, you know," said Hamton, "Furrball _is_ one of those Toons who's allowed to live on their own. He's very smart and can take care of himself, but . . . he just doesn't have any place to stay. And so, seeing him so cold, I just . . . well, I thought . . . you know, it would only be until it got warm again. . . ."

Hamton didn't know what else to tell them. What more was there to say? Furrball had lived for so long on the street, making it through reasonably well, and Hamton decided, for once, Furrball should be given some real shelter. Neverminding the last time he let Furrball stay while they worked on _Tiny Toons_ , he was definitely welcome in Hamton's opinion.

But it was now the opinion of the two in front of him that mattered, and given how they were looking so concerned, Hamton didn't know whether they would agree with him or not. One thing was for certain, though: whatever they decided would be final.

"Hamton," said Winnie gently. "Me and your father need a minute to talk about this. Please go into your room and wait with Furrball until we call you."

Hamton went without word or complaint.

When he opened his bedroom door, Furrball was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window into the cold, dark night. Turning to look at Hamton, he meowed questionably.

"They need a minute," Hamton responded gently.

Furrball turned back to gaze out the window, where a passing breeze caused the bare tree branches to sway in the glow of the lampposts. He sighed hopelessly, his paws resting on the soft fabric of the bed's cover.

Not knowing what to do, Hamton walked to the foot of his bed and sat down upon it, joining Furrball in watching the quiet, cold winter night.

His room had never felt so uncomfortable before. Furrball seemed absorbed by the wind's harsh blowing — the tree branches were swaying more than ever, and the wind howled as snow dustings skated across the street.

Pained by Furrball's anxious stillness, Hamton looked over at his desk where his money list laid. He wondered briefly what would happen if Furrball would be forced to leave. He and Hamton had done very well over the last three days. At the rate they were going, the Du Coeur seemed much closer now than —

Hamton shook his head and scowled. What was he doing? Furrball could be moments away from losing his shelter and he, Hamton, was worrying about not being able to raise enough money! How could he be so selfish?!

Though Hamton knew his reasons for wanting the perfume were for reasons some might find admirable, he couldn't say it was the most important thing at the current moment. No. Not even close.

Turning away from the list, Hamton looked back outside. The wind was still blowing. Though he couldn't tell due to the light pole's glowing yellow light, Hamton saw no stars or moon glimmering in the sky. It would be a harsh night for a walk.

Frowning, pity rushing through him at the sight of Furrball, who still wouldn't take his gaze away from the window, Hamton sighed.

He could only stand and wait, praying with all his might that his parents would find it in themselves to allow Furrball a place to stay.

At that moment, Hamton couldn't help but smile sadly. To think, every holiday so many people strive to have objects and trinkets for gifts, while Furrball, who barely had a thing to call his own, wanted nothing more than a home: perhaps the most wonderful thing to have, and perhaps the most difficult thing to give anyone.

How many minutes passed, Hamton didn't know or check. Even though it couldn't have been too long, the night seemed to have stretched out longer than was natural. And so, when the door opened from behind, Hamton nearly tripped onto the floor. Turning, Hamton saw Wade and Winnie standing in the doorway. They both looked calm.

"Son," said Wade. "Your mother and I would like to talk to you. In the living room, please."

Hamton turned and gave Furrball one last meaningful look. He could feel Furrball watching him as he left the bedroom and walked with his parents to the couch.

Standing there, his parents before him, Hamton prepared for what felt like a doctor's diagnosis on a terrible disease.

Finally, his father spoke. "Me and your mother have thought this over, Hamton, but before we tell you what we've decided, we want to ask a few questions, just to clarify things. Understand?"

Hamton nodded.

"Okay," said Wade, taking a deep breath. "Now. . . . Hamton, you said were working to buy a gift for someone?"

Hamton stared at him. "Yeah. . . ?"

"Is Furrball helping you?"

"Yeah, he is."

"You are paying him for the help he gives, right?"

Hamton hesitated before answering. "Well . . . I offered him half of what I make, but he said that he'll take food and shelter as his payment."

For a moment, Hamton dreaded that his father would find this unacceptable. Wade opened his mouth but paused, looked off to the side, then after what looked like a very strenuous second of thought, said, "Okay . . . . You are sure Furrball is all right with that?"

"Yes, I asked him," said Hamton, flinching at the intensity of his father's gaze. "I made doubly sure he would be all right with it, and he said he is."

Next, Winnie spoke. "And are you and Furrball all right on food, Hamton? Do you both have enough to eat?"

"Yeah, we're good, for the most part," said Hamton, and to this, he answered more calmly. "Like I said, Mom, I'm trying to watch how much I eat, and Furrball is used to eating small portions. We both eat plenty at lunch time during the week at school, and I didn't use any of the money from this week's grocery checks for anything except groceries, so . . . yeah, it hasn't been _too_ bad."

Hamton attempted a mild grin, though his parents still looked rather strict.

"And are you all right with Furrball staying with you?" asked Wade, and he sounded most serious about this particular question. "He isn't any trouble, Hamton? He doesn't do anything that makes your life hard or causes any sort of problems elsewise?"

"What? No, of course not!" said Hamton, a bit taken aback. "He's been staying with me since Sunday, and I haven't had any problems at all. He sleeps quietly, he doesn't complain about anything, he helps me with work and homework. I don't have any problems with Furrball staying with me. I mean, sure, I have a second person to feed, but still . . ."

He looked imploringly at his parents, hoping this would be enough to convince them of Furrball's sincere nature. But neither of his parents said anything. They only exchanged looks.

Hamton gave a sigh, and, feeling a little hopeless, lowered his gaze to his parents' feet and spoke. "Mom, Dad. . . . I'm sorry. I know I should've told you both about this right away, but I was afraid what you'd think. Believe me, I know how big a decision it was to let Furrball stay, but I didn't want him to be to be outside in the cold. As soon as it gets warm again, he says he'll be good —"

Wade raised a pudgy hand, and Hamton stopped speaking at once.

"Hamton," he said calmly. "We're not mad at you."

Hamton's eyes went wide. "You're not?"

"No, honey," said Winnie sincerely. "Your father and I are really proud of you."

Words failed Hamton. He couldn't believe it.

Wade must've seen the disbelief in Hamton's eyes, because he went on, "It's very easy for most people to recognize a problem when they see it, son. But very few people actually step forward to try and help, knowing there may not be anything in it for them." He stopped for a moment, and stared at his son. "Hamton, what you did for Furrball was a very noble thing. I know for a fact that not many would've done what you did.

"That isn't to say me and your mother aren't a little upset for you not telling us this sooner," Wade added. "We would've liked to think you trusted us enough to tell us something this important. I can understand your reasons for being nervous, but son . . . Hamton, you know you can talk to us about anything."

"We could never hate you for doing something like that, sweetie," said Winnie gently. "Taking in a friend out of the cold and sharing with him what you have? How could you think we'd hate you? And doing so at this time of year. . . . That sort of thing is _why_ the holidays are meaningful."

Winnie, her hands clasped together in fondness, moved forward and knelt down to embrace her son.

Hamton stood there with his mother's arms around him, surprised and speechless. His father stayed where he was, but was smiling his usual friendly smirk.

When his mother loosened her hug, Hamton found his voice and, still a bit hesitant, asked, "So . . . can Furrball stay?"

A moment of silence, and then both Winnie and Wade answered, "Yes."

The weight inside Hamton vanished instantly. He felt a grin spread across his face, and said, in a weak but thankful voice, "Thank you."

But Hamton's happiness was nothing compared to Furrball's. He jumped up from the bed in a cat-like shriek of glee and zoomed through the air and hugged Wade around his large pig belly. Wade, smirking in amusement, patted Furrball's blue head. Winnie wiped away a tear that leaked out from her sunglasses. And still, Hamton couldn't stop smiling.

* * *

The next two hours that passed in the Pig household were simply enjoyable. While others might've sulked around after learning that a guest of theirs was homeless, that wasn't what happened this night in Acme Acres. With some time to spare before they had to be off to the Acme Acres City Hotel so they could get ready for their next business trip, Wade and Winnie sat on the couch with Hamton and Furrball, and together, the four of them enjoyed a few holiday specials: including the cartoon special of _Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ and a live action film about an elf searching for his human parents.

"Hmm, funny," said Wade between chuckles. "What's strange is that this movie won't be released until 2003. Still: anything's possible in the world of Toons."

Eventually, 9:00 came, and Wade and Winnie announced that it was time for them to be off.

They shook hands with Furrball once more, saying it was a pleasure meeting him. Then they both gave Hamton a hug, Winnie's being extra hard with a few kisses to Hamton's forehead.

"Take care of yourself, boys," said Wade. "Try not to burn the house down," he added, letting out a hearty laugh.

"We'll see you soon, Hamton, sweetie," said Winnie, hugging her son once more. "We'll call and let you know when you can expect us for Christmas."

Grabbing her coat off the hook, she picked up her purse from the floor and was just about to reach for the door when she stopped abruptly.

"Forget something, dear?" asked Wade, zipping up his coat.

Winnie stepped close to her husband and whispered something into his flabby pig ear.

Hearing Furrball give a light meow, Hamton turned and was surprised to see Furrball looking slightly embarrassed. His tattered right ear flickered and his light blue furry cheeks turned a light red.

"What?" asked Hamton, an eyebrow raised.

But before he could ask if Furrball had heard what his parent's whispered, Winnie said, "Hamton? Can we talk to you about one more thing before we head out?"

"Uh, sure. What is it?"

Wade and Winnie gave each other a quick look, then Winnie asked, "It's . . . about your crush, honey."

Hamton stared at his parents. The whole world seemed to have gone silent. Even the wind outside ceased its blowing.

At first, Hamton hoped he had merely misunderstood his mother, and thus asked, "My what?"

"The person you're working to buy a gift for," Winnie responded.

Hamton felt his mouth go a little dry and — curse him — his cheeks went red again. "W-What about it?" he asked.

"Well," said Winnie, ringing her hands together, "I hope you don't mind us asking this, Hamton, but what exactly do you plan on buying her?"

Hamton didn't need any time to think of his answer. Hoping his parents wouldn't ask for details, he answered, "A bottle of perfume."

At once, both his parents appeared more relaxed.

"Oh, thank goodness," said Winnie, taking a relieved breath. "Very good idea, Hamton."

An eyebrow raised, Hamton asked, "What did you guys think I was trying to get?"

Wade, who had been chuckling, cleared his throat and said, "Oh, we were afraid you were going out of your way and trying to buy a sports car or something crazy like that."

Hamton, seeing his parents chuckle, gave a fake one himself, to which Furrball complimented. Winnie and Wade had no idea how close they actually were in their guess. Given how expensive one bottle of Du Coeur perfume was, Hamton might very well be working to buy a car, although Fifi wouldn't need one — she _lived_ in one after all.

When his parents stopped their laughing, Winnie commented, "Oh, but perfume's a very good choice, Hamton. I'm sure she'll really like it."

"I hope so," said Hamton, with an edge of worry to his voice.

"Why wouldn't she, son?" asked Wade.

Hamton shrugged, feeling his cheeks burn a little.

But his father seemed to read his mind. "She doesn't know how you feel for her, does she?"

Hamton continued looking at the ground.

Winnie placed her hand on Hamton's cheek. "Oh, sweetie. Don't be shy in telling her. How else will she ever know how you feel?"

"That's kind of what I'm hoping the gift will do," said Hamton shyly.

"A gift will only do so much, Hamton," said Winnie, her tone now serious. " _You're_ the one who has to let her know. After all, it's the thought that goes into gifts that makes people appreciate them. All the presents in Santa's sleigh wouldn't mean anything if the person doing the giving doesn't care."

"And, if all else fails, Hamton," said Wade, cracking a slick smile, "chocolate is always a great backup."

At this, Hamton's eyebrows almost rose off his head. "Chocolate?"

Furrball meowed, "Chocolate?"

"Yes, chocolate," Wade replied smugly.

"Oh, Wade!" Winnie scoffed playfully.

"What?" he laughed. "Girls like getting chocolate. _You_ did when I met you."

"Not every girl has the same great tastes, but never mind that," said Winnie, shaking her head and straightening up. "Just be yourself, Hamton. And whatever it is you give your sweetheart — perfume, chocolate, or just a hug — make sure your love goes with it."

Patting Hamton's cheek, Winnie turned with her husband and opened the door.

"Oh, good," said Wade. "The wind's died down. And," he gasped delightfully, "look at _that_. . . ."

Hamton, Winnie, and Furrball stepped forward to glance outside.

Snow was starting to fall — large, pure white dots drifting gently to the ground, gracing everything they touched with the effect of gentle feathers, piling seamlessly onto the snow that already lay upon the ground. It was stacking onto the tree branches, the rooftops and chimneys, and the luggage of Wade and Winnie's car like frosting on a cake.

Admiring the scene, Winnie grabbed hold of Wade's hand. "Now there's something you don't see on the beach."

The two of them walked into the falling snow. Stepping outside, just to feel the white flakes, Hamton and Furrball waved goodbye to the two adults, who waved back.

Wade started up the car and pulled out of the drive. Together, he and his wife set off down the street towards the city, the snow accompanying them as they drove away.

Winnie stared out the passenger side window, appreciating the merry scenery. To her intrigue, there was a young purple skunk in a white scarf walking down the sidewalk. Before Winnie could recognize the girl, however, they past her, Wade humming a strange but happy melody as they went:

 _Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells,_

 _Pop Goes the Weasel!_

* * *

His parents gone, Hamton brought the blankets and pillow back out to the couch. After brushing his teeth, Furrball wasted no time laying down and covering up. His fullness from dinner had returned and his drowsiness took full affect, so that within minutes he was asleep, smiling fondly as he hugged the blankets like a teddy bear.

With a grin for his friend, Hamton set out to the bathroom and brushed his teeth as well.

In his bedroom, he spent a minute looking over his list on which he counted down the amounts to Fifi's present:

 _$1085_

 _-$15  
(Decorating the School 12/8)_

 _-$20  
_ _(two cleanings 12/8)_

 _$1050_

 _-$15  
(Decorating the School 12/9)_

 _-$30  
(two cleanings, bringing in Christmas tree for Plucky 12/9)_

 _$1005_

 _-$50  
(Doing the Impossible: finding Elmyra a pet) 12/10)_

 _$955_

It was a brilliant feeling: getting below a thousand dollars. Hamton could hardly believe it himself, but he was actually getting close to his goal. Of course, he had Furrball to thank for the majority; Hamton would've _never_ been able to decorate the school _and_ do those other jobs if Furrball hadn't been there to lend a paw.

 _I'm getting there, Fifi_ , he thought tenderly. _I'll get there for you_.

Before leaving his desk, Hamton stared for a moment at the job he and Furrball performed on Wednesday the tenth.

He chuckled. Just wait until he told his friends tomorrow!

Hamton turned off the room's overhead light, turned on the bedside lamp and sat down on the edge of his bed. In the quietness of his house, Hamton mulled over the day's events. Despite the nerve-racking suspense this evening brought, Hamton felt the day had been very good. It was nice to see his mother and father again, and food that was worthy of a feast was always welcome in Hamton's book.

Letting his mind wander, Hamton's thoughts drifted from his semi-dark, comfortable bedroom and back to that candle-lit dinner table: the air wafting with baked salmon and gravy over potatoes, Furrball savoring every bite, his dad's funny business stories, and his mom . . . his mom talking about Fifi. . . .

 _Is she that cute skunk girl you took to the prom?_ Winnie's words echoed to the present.

Hamton blinked. Where had _that_ thought come from?

As though absentmindedly searching for an answer to his mother's question, Hamton reached over to his bedside table and pulled open the wooden drawer. Inside laid an album titled 'FRIENDS'. Hamton pulled it out and flipped it open.

Shielded by plastic, glossy and crisp, photographs of memories and friends lined each page.

There was the time Hamton and his friends went to Slumber Party Mountain — a gothic castle and burning candles displayed in the background. There was their Spring Break where they all stood arm in arm — Fifi and Hamton right next to each other in their swimsuits. There was the Acme Bowl when they celebrated Perfecto Prep's defeat — the first and last time Hamton ever attempted football.

Hamton could still remember the sounds, the smells, the sensation of those past years, as though they weren't really gone but merely on pause, like a viewer watching an old cartoon from their childhood.

And of course, there was the grandest memory of them all.

Hamton flipped to the album's first page and pulled the single photo out from its sleeve. The picture had earned its right to be on the front page not because it was the first one taken, but because of what it meant to Hamton on an emotional scale.

By the lamplight, Hamton held the picture delicately and fondly.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo, adorned with a pink bowtie and sash, standing in the Acme Loo gymnasium, its scenery a warm, nightly blue. And there, her arm linked with his, was Fifi, dressed in a red and pink gown, her periwinkle hair shining in the light and her smile soft and beautiful, just as Hamton knew and remembered, all that time ago. . . .

* * *

 _The first rays of daylight broke through the horizon, signaling the end of Prom Night._

 _Hamton was thoroughly tired and eagerly awaited to sleep in his bed. But even as the music and dancing stopped and the streamers and balloons laid strewn upon the gymnasium floor, there was still one last moment to savor._

 _Most everybody had gone home. Pete Puma was busy sweeping up and Calamity Coyote had finally managed to get down onto the floor after being tied to a cluster of balloons all night._

 _Buster and Babs, having danced every slow dance from beginning to end, yawned as they waved goodbye and good morning to their friends, then set off for the forest. Plucky was all tuckered out, but Shirley was as awake and aware as ever. Before going off to their separate homes, Shirley, knowing Plucky was too groggy to really notice, stepped forward and kissed him. For a brief moment, Plucky seemed to awake with full energy again. A second later, he slumped over, tired, but now with a small grin._

 _Finally, only Hamton and Fifi were left._

 _"Le sigh..." said Fifi, her hands over her heart, gazing down the school steps. She looked as happy and awake as she had when the prom began yesterday evening. "It was a night to remember, non?"_

 _"Yeah, it was," said Hamton shyly. "I hope you had a good time, Fifi."_

 _"Oui," she said gratefully. She held out her hand to him._

 _Blushing, Hamton took it, and together they walked past the statues of Bugs and Daffy, out through the arch, and back down the sidewalk through the way they had come._

 _The dark sky was becoming lighter. All across the city, windows once empty and dim shinned with sunlight as though waking from a deep dream._

 _Montana Max's long limousine passed by them, and Hamton thought he saw Elmyra hugging an exasperated but not totally unhappy Monty._

 _Despite how Monty normally couldn't stand the sight of Elmyra, Hamton rather thought the young rich boy had a good time with her once the dancing picked up. And though Monty didn't notice them, Hamton and Fifi saw him and Elmyra dancing a slow waltz out in the hallway, away from everyone else. If what Hamton saw was genuine, Monty may have actually been happy . . . possibly. . . ._

 _Hamton and Fifi crossed another block; they were now only two away from the Acme City Dump._

 _"I'm sorry I couldn't get us a ride, Fifi," Hamton apologized._

 _"Oh, zat is all right," said Fifi, smiling. "I love walking. Gives you time to appreciate ze moment, non?"_

 _She gave his hand a light squeeze, and Hamton felt his heart beat faster._

 _"So . . ." said Hamton, striving to find something to talk about. "Buster's dance really was . . . uh, something, wasn't it?"_

 _"Oui," said Fifi, "I never knew Buster had zhose types of moves."_

 _"Me, neither. At least they were easy to do. Yeah. . . ."_

Well, that topic lasted long _, Hamton thought sarcastically._

 _"Um . . ." Hamton thought hard. "You're a very good dancer yourself, Fifi"_

 _"Merci," she replied. "You are trés bien yourself."_

 _"Really?" asked Hamton modestly. "I stepped on your foot a few times, though."_

 _"Not as much as Dizzy Devil stepped on Mitzi's," Fifi added with a giggle. "She did not seem to mind, zhough."_

 _The joy Hamton felt at holding Fifi's hand and not making a fool of himself vanished quickly at hearing the name of Dizzy's date._

 _"I'm really, really sorry about that, Fifi," said Hamton regretfully._

 _"Oh, do not be silly, Hamton," Fifi said with a chuckle. "You are not ze only one who trodded over a few feet. Why, Buster and Babs, given the size of_ their _feet—"_

 _"No. . ." said Hamton remorsefully. "I meant about Mitzi . . . about how I acted when I saw her. . . ."_

 _Fifi went silent. Hamton's sight turned to the bland gray sidewalk; he couldn't bear to see Fifi's aggravation._

 _He felt a sudden tug on his arm and turned. Fifi had stopped walking._

 _She stepped forward and looked him in the eye. "Hamton. . . ." she said tenderly. "I am not angry with you. Buster and Plucky did ze same thing. It was just a moment of weakness, and I helped snap you out of it, remember?"_

 _"Yeah, I do," Hamton laughed weakly, feeling the spot on his head where the mallet had struck him._

 _"Sorry I did zhat," Fifi said._

 _"It's okay. I deserved it."_

 _"Besides," said Fifi with a weak smile, and this time_ she _looked down onto the gray sidewalk. "Mitzi_ is _a beautiful woman..."_

 _The slightly pained look in Fifi's face brought out these next words before Hamton could think, "Not as much as you."_

 _Fifi looked up, a little surprised._

 _"I mean it," said Hamton, and he didn't care that he was blushing._

 _Fifi gave the most dazzling smile. It complimented her cute white cheeks and her violet eyes as they sparkled with the morning glow. Without a word (and thank goodness because Hamton was too bashful to speak another), Fifi took his hand and together they started off again._

 _Finally, they had reached the Dump and were back outside the pink Cadillac._

 _Fifi took Hamton's hand in hers and said, "Bless you, Hamton. Thank you_ so much _for taking me."_

 _Without any trouble, Hamton spoke his heart. "I wouldn't have gone with anyone else."_

 _For but a moment, the whole world seemed to stop. Hamton was lost without a care, hand in hand with the most beautiful sight on earth._

 _But after that moment, the world awoke. . . ._

 _Fifi's lips had touched his cheek._

 _"Good morning, mon cher ami," she whispered tenderly, and with that, Fifi turned to open her Cadillac and Hamton felt her tail brush against his arm._

 _He turned to hide his blush, and, once beyond the fence, Hamton felt his heart and how steady it was._

 _It was funny how it worked: how a few words, or a touch, or a glance can warm you and make you realize you feel this way. And on that morning, which now seemed far brighter, Hamton realized for the first time that it was Fifi who made him feel . . . that made him feel. . . ._

* * *

Hamton placed the beloved memory back onto its page and closed the album. Switching off the end table's lamp, he laid down on his soft bed and turned to face the window.

The snow was still falling, the large white flakes as bright as the stars clouded by the overcast sky.

He closed his eyes and thought of Fifi, of their Prom Night, of when she hugged him a few days ago, of the gentleness of her hands.

Half asleep, Hamton prayed the Du Coeur would give him another memory to cherish, not only in photograph, but for all the days ahead.

 _$955 to go - 13 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome, positive or constructive.**


	20. Setting a Date

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Chapter edited by Redtop1995. Thank you very much.**

* * *

 **Chapter 20**

 _Setting a Date_

 _~Friday, Dec. 12th~_

Acme Acres was covered in snow and doused with frost by next morning. On a hunch, Hamton and Furrball left the house a few minutes earlier than normal and set out for the city at a brisk trot. This proved to be a wise move. Though the snow didn't necessarily make the walk colder, it most certainly made it more tiring. Hamton and Furrball had to trudge in and out of knee-deep piles all the way down the country road, so that by the time they reached the first city sidewalk, Hamton was sweating beneath his coat and overalls which only made him feel chillier.

The main city was just as white and sparkly as the outer neighborhoods. Snowplows were driving up and down the streets, pushing snow off to the sides or wherever else it would fit. Hamton bet the workers of the Acme Anger Management Center would be grouchy when they got to work this morning — a snowplow had dumped the whole of its load directly in front of the Center's entrance.

Everything, from the overly bright white sky to the snowy buildings, held a wintery glow, making the city seem cleaner than usual. The Christmas decorations were right at home with these snowy touches, and it was at seeing the green wreaths and colorful lights in the store windows that made Hamton realize something with a light shock:

It was the twelfth of December; Christmas Eve was twelve days away. Hamton only had half the time left to buy Fifi her gift.

But . . . he could worry about that later. He still had time, didn't he?

Hamton and Furrball met up with Buster, Babs, Plucky, and Shirley a short ways down the next few blocks and wasted no time in filling them in on a particularly outrageous endeavor from Wednesday.

"And so," Hamton concluded, "we gave it to her after school before we left for grocery shopping on Thursday."

There was a few seconds of footsteps and blank looks, of shock and disbelief. Then everyone burst out laughing.

"You-you're—," Plucky struggled to speak as he guffawed, gripping his stomach. "You're _serious_? You two . . . you two got Elmyra —"

"A pet," Hamton confirmed, nodding.

Plucky laughed even harder, so hard that he had to lean against a building to steady himself. Buster and Babs didn't bother and fell right onto the sidewalk, laughing their heads off and ignoring the strange looks passersby gave them. Shirley, who had been levitating, twirled in midair with nasally giggles.

Smirking, Hamton and Furrball looked at each other and shook their heads in amusement; they had expected this sort of reaction.

When the laughter eventually died down, they all continued on towards school and met Fifi halfway. Besides her curiosity towards Plucky's chortling, Hamton couldn't help but notice that Fifi wasn't making much eye contact, at least not with him. She seemed to be deep in thought about something, and it wasn't until the seven of them reached the school's outer walls did Fifi eventually speak.

"All right," she said, smirking. "What is so funny?" she asked, staring at Plucky and Babs who were both still chuckling.

"That's our fault, Fifi," said Hamton, raising his hand. And with that, he once again explained the whole bizarre story.

* * *

 _2 Days Ago. . ._

It had been a pleasantly normal Wednesday. Nothing out of the ordinary happened or was expected to. So, imagine Hamton and Furrball's shock — and slight horror — when they were approached after school by Elmyra Duff. Just as they were about to run for the hills (quite literally if they had to), Elmyra swore that she really, truly wanted Hamton's help this time.

"By Dog's honor, Mr. Piggy-Wiggy," Elmyra said in a mock salute. "I want to request a job from you and Mr. Kitty Cat."

And the task she set them?

"I want a pet that I can hug and kiss and smother with lots of love!"

Before Hamton and Furrball could bother asking for details, let alone splutter their confusion, Elmyra skipped happily away, promising them fifty dollars if they managed to find her a pet by tomorrow after school.

The prospect of this high payment did nothing to encourage Hamton. Regardless of the fact that anything's possible in cartoon animation, there were some things even cartoons had restrictions on — rules that were set so firmly in place that breaking them would be quite the foolish and stubborn pipe-dream. And the idea of actually finding _Elmyra Duff_ a pet . . . Hamton just couldn't picture it. If there was a place where Cartoon Logic would draw the line, Elmyra getting a willing pet would be it.

He remembered Elmyra's house with a tremor, how it was littered with empty cages. What animal with the slightest amount of common sense would want to go within fifty miles of a place like that? Elmyra's girlish face was probably branded into every fluffy critter's brain as something to avoid at all costs.

But to Hamton's great surprise, he didn't have to worry or brainstorm for long. Out of nowhere, a bright lightbulb appeared over Furrball's head and, without giving an explanation (not like he could've voiced one anyway), he pulled Hamton out of the school and into the city. Furrball didn't stop until he reached the alleyway near the City Dump, right where Hamton found him last Sunday.

For a couple minutes, Furrball searched through a pile of discarded boxes hidden behind some clutter. Hamton remained at the alleyway's entrance, watching with confusion as Furrball dumpster-dived through all the rubbish. Eventually, the cat came out of the alley holding an old battered, brown box with perfectly circular holes in the sides as though the contents within needed air to breathe.

On the front of the box, in large black letters, were two words: "Pet Rock."

Hamton reread the name and looked back up, staring at Furrball. There was a moment of dumb silence between the two, soon followed by very hearty laughter.

It was brilliant! Brainless, yet so brilliant! What better pet for Elmyra than something as dense as her own head, that was incapable of feeling pain, or complaining, or lacked the ability to struggle for freedom from a little girl whose grip was tighter than a bear trap caught in a French corset?

But will Elmyra accept it, Hamton worried? As thickheaded as she was, Elmyra wasn't clueless when it came to animals. But, as Furrball pointed out, she never specified what _kind_ of pet she wanted.

And so, before Hamton and Furrball went grocery shopping on Thursday, they approached Elmyra after school. She was bouncing on the heels of her shoes.

"Do you have him? Do you have him?" she asked eagerly. "Where's my new pet, Piggy Wiggy? I want to hug him and squeeze him and crush him with all my love and hugs!"

"Hold out your hand, please, Elmyra," said Hamton, to which Elmyra complied, squealing and hopping with excitement like a dog about to be given a treat.

With a steady face, Furrball dropped the Pet Rock into her hands.

"There you are," said Hamton bracingly.

Silence filled the hallway, filled the school, filled the universe.

Elmyra held the rock in her hands and stared at it for a full heavy minute. She appeared lost for words, her mouth hanging open. Hamton and Furrball looked at each other, wondering if they had pressed their luck in resorting to a gag item.

This suspicion was drowned when Elmyra let out a joyful squeal that filled the empty hall. Christmas may have come early for her.

"Oh, isn't he just the _cutest_ little rocky!" she said with rapture. She hugged the little rock in a grip that would've easily crushed any animal's spine. "Wow!" Elmyra exclaimed, ending her embrace and admiring her motionless critter. "He's not struggling or fussing _or_ cowering," she beamed.

 _He's not doing anything, actually_ , Hamton thought. _I mean, he's a rock. . . ._

"Oh, why did I never think of this before! This pet is _perfect_!" With her new, motionless, unresponsive 'pet' under her arm, Elmyra reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out an enormous bag that jingled with metal.

"Here you go, Mr. Piggy-Wiggy and Cute Kitty-Kattie-Wattie," she said merrily, and with a smile, Elmyra handed the bag to Hamton, which was very heavy. "Fifty dollars. Keep the change!"

Hamton opened the bag and found it contained nothing _but_ change — most of it pennies.

"Thanks again, you two," said Elmyra, and she turned, cuddling her new pet in her arms. "Come on, Rocky. I'm gonna take you home and cuddle you and squeeze you and serve you my famous stone soup."

She skipped merrily off down the hall and out the school doors, leaving Hamton and Furrball to stare after her, slightly unnerved, wondering if even a pet rock would be able survive life with Elmyra Duff.

* * *

Hamton's friends laughed themselves silly with the retelling of this story. Fifi, who was hearing it for the first time, giggled with her hand over her mouth in a way that Hamton found positively adorable.

"Again, that's probably the most ingenious idea anyone's ever had at this school," Buster commented, sitting at his desk. "Hamton, Furrball, you two have done the impossible. Who would've thought Elmyra would finally find a pet who doesn't run for the hills at first glance?"

At this, they all turned to see Elmyra sitting in the back of the classroom, beaming and stroking her new pet rock as though it were a kitten. It looked as whole and hardy as it did yesterday, though it now sported a loose collar that read "Rocky" on the tag.

Plucky gave a light scoff. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually happy to see Elmyra happy. Maybe now she'll stop trying to trap us every other week."

This idea, though cheerful, was a ludicrous one, Hamton thought. He knew that when it came to pets, Elmyra was a hoarder. While she may have a rock to take care of now — wow, does that sound stupid! — Hamton had a strong feeling she would still try to make a place for him and his friends among her many cages.

"So, Hamton?" said Fifi curiously. "You said Elmyra paid you and Furrball fifty dollars, non?"

"Yeah," Hamton replied, inwardly dreading where this may be headed. "I thought it was a bit much at first, but she seemed to care more about having a pet than the money."

Furrball gave a meowing nod in agreement.

"So . . ." said Fifi, looking perplexed. "Are you almost finished with your jobs? You _must_ have more zan enough to buy all your gifts now."

For a moment, the distant chatter of the other students became much louder. Monty was avidly counting his money and Mary Melody was humming a light holiday tune while writing in her notebook.

Finally, Hamton managed, in a nervous tone, "I'm . . . getting close. . . ."

Fifi raised an eyebrow. "Hamton, are you planning to buy a sports car?"

"No," he said with a laugh, remembering this same question his parents asked just the other night. "I'm closer to getting it than I have been, though," Hamton clarified, remembering that he was now below a thousand dollars, "and Furrball's been helping me, so it shouldn't be too much longer."

Fifi eyed Hamton suspiciously, and it was clear to her six friends that she was wondering what could be so important that Hamton would dedicate so much time and work towards. But to Hamton's relief, Fifi chose not to press the matter.

After all, she had something more important to ask — something she had planned since last night.

"Hamton?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah, Fifi?"

She hesitated, her eyes darting down and her hands fidgeting. To Hamton's amazement, a light blush appeared on Fifi's white cheeks, turning them slightly pink like her nose. "Zhere . . . Zhere is something I wanted to —"

But before Fifi could say another word, the school bell rang and, right on cue, Professor Leghorn walked in.

"Okay, class, quiet, I say, quiet. We got a lot to cover today to prepare ya'll for next week's exams."

As Leghorn went to set up the class projector, Hamton looked back at Fifi. "What did you want to ask?" he said quietly.

"Later," she whispered, turning the other way in her seat, half thankful, half annoyed at the missed opportunity.

She could still feel Hamton's eyes on her, and she wondered, as she held her pencil over her notebook, if she would still have the nerve to say what was she needed to when 'Later' came.

* * *

The day passed as smoothly as most school days could. Fifi understood most of the material and from what she could tell, so did her friends. Even Plucky seemed to comprehend most of the Calculation problems, though this might've been due to Shirley who kept using her powers to force Plucky to look solely at Miss Granny instead of the half-finished doodle on his notebook page.

Lunch time came. This time around, Furrball joined the six of them at their table. He was looking less thin than he used to be, Fifi noticed. His appearance, which had once bordered on the edge of emaciated, now looked much healthier as though he had had a couple of very fine, full meals as of late. His fur, however, remained scruffy as always.

"How's your Christmas tree doing, Plucky?" asked Hamton. "I hope me and Furrball picked you out a good one."

"Yep," Plucky replied confidently, "it's really coming along." Taking a bite of his sandwich, he said with a full mouth, "I almo ave ih ully ecrateh."

"Pardon?" said Hamton, looking slightly repelled by Plucky's act of speaking while chewing.

"He said," said Shirley, sounding annoyed, "he almost has it, like, fully decorated. And by 'he'," she added on a sharp note, "he means _me_. Like, when he tried starting before I got there, I found him lying on the living room floor, tangled in eight yards of garland."

"Hey, come on, Shirls," Plucky protested defensively. "That stuff's hard to get around the tree. But, I won't deny, it makes more sense to have you help me. You can just levitate in a circle and reduce an hour's work to three minutes."

"That would explain why you asked Hamton and Furrball to get you your tree," said Babs, taking a sip of carrot juice. "Less work for _you_."

"Well, duh!" said Plucky, as though this were something perfectly obvious. "Don't hold that against me. They're looking for work and I had cash to spare. They get some money and _I_ get a tree cut and put in my house. Everybody wins."

Hamton and Furrball shot Plucky a deadpanned stare. Besides the fact that they both got covered in pine pitch while moving the tree into Plucky's house, it took them an additional half hour of work because Plucky couldn't make up his mind of where he wanted the tree placed. But . . . no big deal; a job is a job.

Across the table, Fifi was eyeing Hamton while twiddling her fork.

 _Maybe now_ , she thought. Who cared if her friends heard? They would find out eventually and they surely wouldn't laugh . . . not too much. . . .

"Hamton?" she asked.

Hamton stopped chewing and looked up. "Yes, Fifi?"

Fifi swallowed. She felt her heart accelerate as her tail gave a quiver, and her throat went suddenly dry. What was she doing? Why was she _thinking_ of doing this? It was ridiculous. It was absurd.

Trying to ignore the fact that all her friends were now staring at her, Fifi began to speak.

"I was . . . wondering. . ." Her hands, hidden under the table, tightened together on her lap. "Would . . . would you like to —"

But Fifi failed to get her message across yet again, because, quite out of nowhere, something fell onto the table with a loud CLUNK. Fifi and her friends jumped backward in their seats and several surrounding students shot their attention towards the noise.

Her heart hammering from this unwanted surprise, Fifi moved back to the table and saw, to her complete bewilderment, a rock, wobbling to a stop in front of Hamton's unbitten apple.

Breathless with shock, Fifi wondered what sick person had the nerve to throw a rock at a group of people, but the answer was literally right in front of her, for the rock was wearing a dog's collar.

"Is that. . . ?" Hamton said perplexed, staring at the gray stone.

"Oh, there you are, Rocky!" came Elmyra's sweet, girly voice. "Now, now," she said, picking him up off the table, shaking a playful finger. "We don't go pouncing onto other people's tables, you know that."

"Elmyra!" Buster shouted angerly. "Why'd you throw your pet rock at us?"

"Throw?" Elmyra repeated, sounding confused. "I didn't throw him. Rocky leapt from my table and onto yours. Must've smelled some fruit," she added, grinning down at the stone. "He's crazy about the stuff."

"Well, give us a heads-up before your little building block decides to 'pounce' next time," Plucky added irritably, wiping the remains of his sandwich off his cheek.

"Okay!" Elmyra beamed, oblivious to everyone's annoyance. She then walked away, stroking her rock as though it were a baby.

Fifi sat back down in her chair and thought of restating her question, but regretfully found that her nerve had died.

Her tail laying limp on the floor, Fifi took a sip of her grape juice. "Le sigh…"

"Hey," said Hamton with surprise.

Fifi jerked her head upward.

"What happened to my apple?" he said, looking over the side and under the table.

A very loud belch was then heard.

Everyone in the cafeteria turned to the source and found . . . Elmyra.

"Sorry, everyone!" she called with a giggle. "Rocky's just had a little snack. Haven't you, my little rolling stone, you. . . ."

Slowly, Fifi and all her friends turned to where Hamton's apple had been sitting — the very spot where Elmyra's 'rolling stone' had landed.

"Furrball?" said Hamton with unease. "Where did you say you got that Pet Rock from?"

* * *

Fifi arrived in Cartoon Logic class in a huff, her lips pursed and jaw stiff. She could not understand why she was feeling so anxious; _Hamton_ was usually the hesitant one in the group. It was just a little question, yet the words seemed to outweigh the ocean.

Given the irony of the situation, Fifi would've laughed at herself if she didn't feel so upset. To think . . . after all those years of fawning and swooning, searching and daydreaming about the perfect boy, she was actually being hesitant. . . .

"Fifi, you okay?" asked Babs in the desk beside her.

Fifi inhaled quickly through her nose, cleared her throat and said, "Oui. Just thinking . . ." she said decisively.

From the other side, Shirley whispered, "Is it about what you wanted to ask Hamton?"

Fifi's tail gave a sharp twitch. Clearing away the fluttering air in her throat, she opened her mouth to respond, though she had no clue of what to say.

Thankfully, the bell rang and, for the second time that day, she was saved as a teacher walked inside to begin class. Taking a relieved breath, Fifi eased back in her chair as Babs and Shirley gave her one last curious glance.

Fifi's calmness didn't last long. She had hoped class would take her mind off of Hamton as Professor Fudd went over the chapter they had read on Cartoon Karma. But, every so often, he would say something that tickled Fifi's brain in just the right spot.

"So you see, cwass," said Professor Elmer Fudd. "Evewything we feel, whether joy, sadness, affection, or BOWEDOM," he snapped at Plucky, who jerked awake in his seat with a snort, "is weally nothing more than the wesult of a past expewience. One simple action, such as a coyote seeing a woad wunner, will induce hunger and thus cwave to eat said woad wunner. But, as most of us know from expewience, the only thing the coyote often feels in weturn is pain due to not pwanning his appwoach cawefuwy."

Fifi tapped her fingers silently. Perhaps _she_ should've given her approach more thought. . . .

Fifi sat quietly in her desk, taking in as much of Fudd's knowledge as she could, but her brain kept drifting in and out with every mention of feelings and their sources.

Pressing the top of her finger to her bottom lip, Fifi's eyes flickered to Hamton a few desks away and wondered. . . . What was the source of what _she_ was feeling now?

Was it because of something recent, like she and Hamton's exploding chocolate cake or the walk they took that same day? What about the ice cream they had with their friends after the talent show on the first day of December?

Fifi frowned. Somehow, none of those instances felt significant enough to be the cause of what she felt now. They certainly contributed, yes, but was there anything else? Anything special? Anything that _really_ made her feel?

And then it hit her.

Professor Fudd's voice became muffled and suddenly Fifi was back in her immobile home, snow falling outside the car window. She was reading her mother's letter, staring down at her prom picture. All of what she viewed yesterday. . . .

But . . . no, Fifi thought. Prom happened more than a year ago. It was old news. Nobody at school talked about it anymore. So why would that make her feel. . .

Her mind cleared and she looked over at Hamton in his desk. And silently, Fifi wondered: had these feelings always been there, buried and asleep, never recognized or acknowledged? Could feelings do that?

"Now with disappointment," came Professor Fudd's voice, once again sending Fifi clean out of her deep thinking, "which is perhaps the most tewwible of emotions when coupled with depwession, we mustn't despair when we feel it. Whether you didn't win that twophey, or get the chance to thwow a pie in someone's face, or get the chance to join the other Toons on stage, always wemember the fact that you twied. When you face disappointment, the best thing to do is accept it and take the chance to see the situation as a new chance to impwove or make a fwesh start," Professor Fudd concluded, finishing a lecture on something Fifi didn't hear. "Karma, though twicky, is always at work, cwass. The real twick is working awong with it and hoping it favors you in the end."

A second later, the bell rang and everyone stirred from their desks. Plucky, who had become drowsy again, fell out of his desk and landed on the floor with a light crash.

"Maybe next time Karma will teach _you_ to tape your eyes open!" Professor Fudd snapped at him. He marched back to his desk, grumbling about ignorant ducks.

Fifi gathered her up notebook and class book, and, waiting until her friends had left for the day's final class, she approached the teacher's desk.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Fudd?" she said.

"Yes, Fifi?" asked Professor Fudd, looking up from his class notes.

"I have a question about feewing – I mean, _feelings_ and Karma," she said, and despite her curiosity, Fifi couldn't help feeling a tad silly asking something like this, and to a teacher like Professor Fudd no less. "Can feelings . . . recent feelings you have at ze moment result from something zat happened long ago, even zhough you did not consider zem at ze time? Can zey grow without you realizing?"

"Oh, absowuetly," Fudd confirmed. "In fact, Fifi, more often than not, we hawdly notice why we feel what we do until waiter. Until I became a teacher, I didn't know that my wove of hunting cwitters like that scwewy wabbit was due to my childhood pains of never winning any school competition. Evewy time I missed a chance to snare Bugs in one of my wabbit twaps, it felt as though I were back at school, being the wast to cwoss the finish wine. Does that help?"

Fifi couldn't honestly say it did, so she shrugged and answered, "Sort of. Merci, Monsieur Fudd. Good day."

She walked out of the classroom with her book and notebook clutched against her chest. Though she knew Professor Fudd had done his best to explain, Fifi didn't think her problem could relate to being the last to cross a finish line — though the fact that her own little sister beat her to a having a boyfriend _would_ be a decent, albeit annoying example. Fifi frowned grumpily at this fact.

But that aside, what else could she do?

Maybe she'd have better luck talking to Pepe Le Pew. He's much better on emotions than Elmer Fudd, and he was Fifi's mentor after all. If _he_ couldn't help her, Fifi didn't know who else could.

* * *

With her mind set on getting to the bottom of these bizarre feelings, Fifi worked quickly through Exploding Cakes class. She was partnered with Babs and was agreeing with everything her long-eared friend suggested on their exploding cupcakes.

"Do you think a little pumpkin spice would mix well with the carrot?" Babs asked, eyeing over the possible ingredients laid before them.

"Oui," Fifi said distractedly, watching the cafeteria's wall clock.

"And . . . how about some confetti? You'll get a surprise _and_ still have something edible to bite."

"Uh-huh," Fifi replied tonelessly.

Babs shot her friend a look, an eyebrow raised. "You okay, Fifi?"

"Huh?" Fifi turned sharply. "Oh, oui. I'm fine. Just. . ."

Surely, Fifi could tell Babs; One girl to another, she'd understand.

"I need to talk to Pepe Le Pew," Fifi whispered. "Now."

"What for?" Babs asked quietly.

Fifi hesitated. "I . . . just need his advice on a few things, things zat are on my mind."

"Can't it wait until after class?"

"Non!" Fifi whispered urgently. "It _has_ to be before zat."

It was with immense relief that Babs didn't inquire further. "Okay, sure. Let's just get these cupcakes in the oven and then you can go. I'll watch the oven for you."

"Merci!"

Hurriedly, Fifi and Babs worked and were the first to get their confetti-stuffed cupcakes in the fully-heated oven.

Fifi then raised her hand and said, "Monsieur Sam? May I please be excused to use ze restroom?"

"Sure, sure," said Yosemite Sam in his gruff voice. "Just don't take too long. You need to be present to get a grade."

" _Bien_ (All right)," and without another word, Fifi rushed out of the cafeteria and into the hall, her heart flooding with anxiety.

Now that was she heading there, what would she ask Pepe when she reached his office? How could Fifi word her questions without Pepe staring at her as though she had gone mad?

Surely Pepe wouldn't laugh at her. Why would he? He was, after all, her mentor and a dear friend of her family's. Fifi had always been able to talk with him without fear of ridicule or scorn. But would he be _able_ to answer the question that's been burning in Fifi's brain since the other night? Pepe may be smart, sophisticated, and sensitive to people's feelings, but the fact remained that he was _still_ single after all these years.

In no time at all, Fifi found herself outside a door that read:

 **Prof. Pepe Le Pew**

 **Smellogy & French**

Fifi peered through the window and saw that the classroom was mostly empty, as she knew it would. Pepe only held classes in the mornings and early afternoons, which proved helpful for when Pepe helped Fifi train in singing Habanera for the December Talent Show. The only person inside was Pepe, his feet propped up on his desk, reading what looked like a softcover romance novel.

Taking a deep breath, still not knowing what exactly she was going to say, Fifi knocked on the door.

"Come in," came Pepe's voice.

Fifi entered.

"Ah, Fifi!" said Pepe delightfully. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Pardon my interruption, Pepe," Fifi said. "I was just wondering if I could talk for a couple minutes?"

"Of course, of course," said Pepe, bookmarking the spot in his novel and placing it down on the desk. He motioned to the chair beside his. "Have a seat, mon élève chéri ( _my darling student_ )."

Smiling at Pepe's kindheartedness, Fifi sat down and rested her hands on her lap. She glanced up at the ticking clock. Those exploding cupcakes wouldn't take long to finish baking, so Fifi knew she had to be quick.

"So, what is on your mind, Fifi?" asked Pepe, folding his black furry hands on his lap.

Fifi paused, not entirely sure how to word it, but, knowing she was pressed for time, she thought it best to start by saying, "Well, Pepe, I . . . I have been having very weird thoughts lately . . . about a boy."

Fifi's face went red at admitting it. Her toes tightened inward and she felt like shrinking farther back into the depths of her chair, despite already being seated back as far as she could go.

Pepe, however, looked positively delighted at Fifi's news.

"Oh-ho!" he said merrily. "Has it happened at last, Fifi? Have you found your darling skunk?"

"Well . . . zat is sort of what I wish to talk about," she said, feeling awkward. "Firstly, I am not sure how I feel. Secondly," Fifi swallowed a little, the truth catching in her like a stone, "you see, Pepe, he — ze boy, zat is — he . . . he is not a skunk. . . ."

Fifi glanced nervously up at her mentor, who _did_ look a tad surprised, but not in any way appalled.

"I see," he said calmly. Cocking his head, he asked, "Have you just met him?"

"No. I have actually known him for quite a long time, since _Tiny Toon Adventures_. And . . . um . . ." Fifi struggled to find the right words to express what lay inside her, but her own confusion, mixed with the ticking clock overhead (reminding her yet again to hurry) tied her tongue and rendered her silent.

"Fifi, it is all right," Pepe said gently, and he stretched out his hand and laid it atop both of hers, "It is okay. Take your time. Is zhere something about zis boy you wish to talk about?"

Swallowing again, Fifi ran a hand across her periwinkle bangs and said, "Well . . . I am . . . I am thinking of. . ." she took a deep breath. She had to say it, she knew she had to. With all her courage, she responded, "I am thinking of asking him out on a date."

In its nervousness, Fifi's heart started to pound fiercely.

To her shock, Pepe gave a small laugh. Fifi's ears seemed to flood with what felt like shame, but a moment later, Fifi realized Pepe's laughter wasn't scorn. On the contrary: it was quite jolly.

"Zat is magnific, Fifi!" Pepe cheered, still chuckling, "A date is a wonderful idea! But . . ." he frowned, "why would zat trouble you? You have been looking for your special someone for as long as I have known you. I think it is lovely zat you wish to explore and understand your feelings. A date would be just ze solution."

"But. . ." Fifi hesitated, "I am not sure _how_ I feel, zhough. I mean, I DO like him. He is very, _very_ sweet, and very thoughtful, and we have been friends for a long time, but. . ."

A twinge of disgust coursed through Fifi's being.

"He is not a skunk," she finished, feeling ashamed.

For a moment, Pepe didn't speak. And when he did, his voice was gentle and curious, "Does he _have_ to be, Fifi?"

Fifi's memory rewound back a few days ago to the Country Club, where Plucky had asked her the exact same question. But only now did Fifi actually stop and consider it.

Did her darling "skunk-hunk" necessarily _have_ to be a skunk? Was there really anything wrong with that?

"It is just . . . I have always imagined my darling boy would be a skunk." Realizing how inconsequential this statement sounded, Fifi's gaze fell to the floor. "Sorry. I know I must sound petty —"

"No, no, Fifi. . ." Pepe reassured her. "What you feel is normal. It is natural for people to seek out someone who is like zemselves, whether in character or appearance. Look at your friends, Buster and Babs. Could you imagine zem loving anyone other zan each other?"

"No, but zat is ze point, Pepe!" said Fifi, now feeling desperate. "Zey both make sense together! True, zey have liked each other for a long time and were bound to get together, but was zat because zey grew to like each other _or_ because zey were both rabbits?"

"Well, I imagine zhose are _both_ good reasons to what drew zem together — besides ze animators, zat is," said Pepe with a light chuckle. "But, Fifi, do not be silly. You know love is not based solely on appearances. Buster and Babs did not just look at each other one day and start holding hands or going out on dates. Zey took ze time to get to know each other, and as such, zheir feelings grew. And it was not all lovely-dovey, Fifi. Love hardly ever is. Zey, like every couple, had to go experience ze downs as much as ze ups. Love is not perfect, you see. Non. But things usually manage to work zhemselves out."

Fifi smiled lightly. "Oui, zey do," she said, thinking of Buster and Babs' current relationship.

"So, Fifi," Pepe resumed, happy to see his pupil looking more comfortable. "I think it is very brave and wise to think of asking this special boy of yours out on a date. Skunk or not, you would be surprised where love can hide. I mean, just look at Roger Rabbit and _his_ wife. He did not let being a rabbit stop him from pursuing his heart's wish, so why should you let being a skunk stop you?"

Pepe then reached out and patted Fifi on the shoulder. "You are a beautiful young woman, Fifi. You deserve someone wonderful in your life. Your heart is speaking to you now. Do not ignore it and lose your chance, otherwise you may look back and wonder, with regret, what could have been."

Fifi's heart stopped hammering and took on a steady rhythm. Beaming, she stood up from her chair. "Merci, Pepe. I shall do it!"

"Bravo," he said, grinning. He looked up at the clock. "Now, you better hurry back, Fifi. You do not want Yosemite Sam to blow his top. You know," he chuckled, "more zan usual."

Her eyes shooting to the clock, Fifi saw with a start that there were only five minutes left of class.

"Sacré bleu! I need to get back! Bye, Pepe, and merci!"

As she sprinted for the door, Pepe called, "Good luck, mon cher! And remember, let your heart speak for you!"

Fifi disappeared as the door slowly closed. Smiling, Pepe sat back down in his desk and picked up his romance novel. Staring at the cover, he let out a delighted sigh.

"Ah . . . young love." Thinking of his beloved pupil, he gave a knowing smirk. "Hamton Pig is a _very_ lucky boy."

* * *

"You girls and your bathroom breaks!" Yosemite Sam exclaimed when Fifi reentered the cafeteria, causing all the girls in class to shoot glares at the minuscule teacher. "Next time, skip powdering yer nose, will ya? You almost missed yer turn!"

"Sorry, Monsieur Sam," said Fifi, walking over to stand alongside Babs.

Together, they presented their cupcakes and watched as Professor Sam became showered with confetti. After spitting out half a pound of the colored paper, he graded them with a B.

Stepping off to the side as the last group presented their cupcakes, Babs whispered, "What'd you talk to Pepe about?"

"You'll see after class," was all Fifi said as she heard an explosion and looked to the side.

A mess of dollars was drifting down to the floor amongst a pile of blackened cake remains. Plucky, hyperventilating and laughing greedily, was quick to pick up every crispy dollar, but had it all snatched out of his hands.

"Keep your feathers off my property, you molting swamp rat!" Montana Max hollered. "We're sharing grades, not success. So, Yosemite," said Max, looking ever so smug at his teacher, "what's my grade?"

"A C," said Professor Sam, his arms crossed.

" _WHAT_? A _C_?" snapped Monty, a vein in his head pulsing. "Who are you tryin' to cheat, you old midget?! The cupcakes exploded, didn't they? And if that weren't enough, they rained money! _Money_ for dimes-sake!"

"Yeah, but you and Plucky _burnt_ your cupcakes, Monty!" Sam retorted.

"So what?" Monty shouted, his teeth gnashing down. "They were made to explode! What does it matter what they look like?"

"It matters because it's food!" shouted Professor Sam. "Just as no one wants to marry something that smells like manure, no one's gonna want to sink their teeth into something that looks like charcoal!"

The bell rang upon the completion of this bitter statement, and a good thing it did; a few seconds longer and _Monty_ may very well have exploded — his face was fuming red.

As everyone scattered to start cleaning up the baking tools and counter tops, Fifi could hear Monty trying to bribe Yosemite Sam with money in exchange for a better grade. To Babs' extreme delight, he was unsuccessful.

"Great job letting those cupcakes burn, Plucky," said Babs when they all got to their lockers.

"Hey, it wasn't me who did that," said Plucky in annoyance, zipping up his coat. "I might not be a great cook, but even I know not to add too much ACME baking-gunpowder. But _nooooooo_. Monty insisted on doing everything his way!"

"That's Monty for you, though," said Buster. "It's almost like he asks for these things to blow up in his face."

"Like, that aside, everything else was mondo entertaining," said Shirley, fluffing her blonde hair out from her coat. "Gogo really wowed me, the way his cupcakes resembled teacups."

"And how they sprayed tea when they exploded?" added Hamton, smirking.

"Clever _and_ unexpected," Shirley agreed. "He definitely deserved that A. You, like, totally should've seen it, Fifi."

"Oui," she said distractedly, tying her white scarf around her neck.

Shirley raised an eyebrow. "You all right, girl?"

"Um..." Fifi looked around at her friends. She could already feel her heart pounding. She knew the time had come; she had to say it now. "Pardon, mes amis, but . . . would you all be so kind and give me some time to talk alone with Hamton?"

Hamton shot his head up in surprise. Fifi glanced at Babs, desperately hoping she, a girl, would understand what this request translated to. And thankfully, comprehension seemed to dawn on Babs.

"Sure thing, Fifi," she said. "Come on, Buster. Shirley, a little help with Plucky?"

Without arguing or bothering to ask, Buster calmly took his girlfriend's hand and began walking to the bend down the hall, beyond the line of lockers.

"Ah, come on!" Plucky complained when Shirley took his hand in an ironclad grip. "What's with the secrecy? We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are," said Shirley warningly, "and _as_ friends, Plucky, we give our friends space when they, like, ask for it. Now, come on, Plucky. NOW!" The tone in Shirley's voice was so dead-serious that Plucky didn't dare argue back. Together, they followed after Buster and Babs who had disappeared around the corner.

 _Best say it quick_ , Fifi thought. But just as she had opened her mouth to begin talking, Furrball turned up from behind and greeted her and Hamton with a wave.

"Excusez-moi, Furrball," said Fifi politely. "Could you please give me and Hamton a moment to talk? Privately, please?"

Furrball looked from her to Hamton, who shrugged his shoulders. Furrball nodded and left, staring back at the two questionably.

When the tip of Furrball's long tail vanished from around the row of lockers, Hamton turned. He and Fifi were the only ones in the hallway now.

"Is . . . there something you need, Fifi?" He sounded quite anxious.

Fifi didn't answer at first. Now that the moment had come, she found it difficult to breathe and her lips didn't seem to want to part. A dense space was filling up in her belly, growing heavier with every second she delayed. Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. She felt slightly ill. Her encouraging talk with Pepe from half an hour ago might've never happened.

But from out of her memory came Pepe's words: _"Your heart is speaking to you now. Do not ignore it and lose your chance..."_

Pepe was right. If Fifi didn't say it now, she wouldn't get another chance until next week, and who knows if her nerve would be any stronger by then?

Taking a deep breath through her pink nose, Fifi swallowed, then spoke, "Hamton? Are you working zis Saturday by any chance?"

Hamton appeared to consider, but for some strange reason, Fifi could've sworn there was a twinge of anxiousness in Hamton for being asked this question. Why though?

"Uh..." said Hamton. "Me and Furrball don't have anything planned _yet_ , but we'll definitely be trying to find a job or two. We're trying to do something important, you see," and his eyes left hers and wandered around the lockers, then to the floor which was completely barren of anything interesting, apart from some water droplets left by melted snow prints. "W-why do you want to know, Fifi?"

"Oh . . . well . . ." Fifi said while fiddling with her hands. It was impossible to say whether she felt relief at the possibility Hamton may be too busy, or whether she felt let down because she may have already missed her chance.

 _Come on, Fifi_ , she thought stubbornly. _Just say it! Besides disappointment, what have you to lose?_

She looked directly at Hamton, and then, with all her courage, said, "I was . . . wondering . . . if you would like to do something zis Saturday . . . with me . . . ."

Never in Fifi's life had the school hallways sounded this quiet.

Hamton's eyes widened. He looked surprised beyond his wildest dreams.

"Wha…?" he asked, his mouth ajar.

With a rush of timidity flooding her cheeks, Fifi repeated rather hastily, "I asked if would you like to hang out zis Saturday with me . . . just ze two of us."

Hamton's look of astonishment was so great, it was impossible to tell whether it was from revulsion or glee. He was speechless, as though he had never expected to hear this question in a trillion years.

Fifi's heart let out a whimper. She should've known. . . .

Her tail fell limp and drooped to the floor. She had gotten her hopes up too high and was now paying the price for it. She knew she shouldn't be surprised, yet that didn't stop her heart from feeling as though it had been punctured by a sharp needle, left to deflate into the lonely center of her chest. If she had been reluctant to speak before, it was nothing compared to this horrible silence.

Who had she been kidding? Hamton would never want to date —

"Yes, please," Hamton said breathlessly.

Fifi's head shot up in alarm. "Pardon?"

"Yes," Hamton said with total clarity. "Fifi, I would _love_ to spend time with you."

Within the course of a millisecond, rapture and jubilation radiated within Fifi, filling her up like the sun. Her smile emerging, she said, "You will?"

"Yeah," Hamton replied, and there was no doubt whatsoever in that beaming expression of his.

Fighting the urge to laugh and start squealing with glee, Fifi managed to calmly say, "Magnifique! What time is good for you?"

"Anytime," Hamton said quickly. "Absolutely anytime."

"All right." Fifi thought for a moment, then, off the top of her head, suggested, "How does 3:00 tomorrow sound?"

"Perfect! Should I meet you at the Dump?"

"Oui."

"Okay," said Hamton. Awkwardly, but still looking delighted, said, "I'll . . . see you tomorrow, then."

"Oui. I shall see you at 3:00." Then, on a side note, she added, "I hope it does not cut into anything you and Furrball —"

"Ah, we can manage," said Hamton with a wave of his hand at this trivial irrelevance. "So . . . see you then?"

"Oui . . ." said Fifi, and after a few seconds of awkwardly exchanged smiles, she and Hamton gave each other one final nod.

"Well . . . bye," said Hamton, smiling bashfully.

Her cheeks burning, Fifi said, "À demain (see you tomorrow)," and with that she turned and headed for the door, each step too slow for her heart, which was now beating like a hummingbird's wings.

She wasn't sure whether or not Hamton thought of it as a date — she hadn't the courage to verbally _say_ the word "date" — but either way, there was not a trace of regret, because she had tried and achieved what she hoped for. Whatever happens next, she'll leave that up to tomorrow.

Stepping outside through the double doors, Fifi stopped on the top of the school's stairs and waited. She took in the whole glistening winter scenery as the door behind her slowly closed. The lights lining the school walls, every bulb a bright neon star. The statues of Bugs and Daffy, cloaked in snow, standing high like stone giants. The delightful, crisp refreshing sensation of the cold, frigid air. How come Fifi had never stopped in this spot and noticed how beautiful this part of Acme Acres was?

Her smile started to grow.

From behind, she heard a hard click — the school doors had closed. With nobody in sight and the feel of it impossible to keep in any longer, Fifi leapt into the air and her happiness exploded in a loud squeal of glee and victory, drowning out the wind and all other sounds.

The sensation flowed over her like a summer wind. She felt as though she could've skipped across the ocean and danced her way up the Eiffel Tower and back again before dinner. The cold concrete beneath her feet seemed to have turned to cotton; she may very well have left the Earth and was walking on clouds.

She drifted down the stairs while her mind seemed to soar like a bird, its destination unknown but its confidence high like the sky. Her fluffy tail waved vibrantly and, once outside the school arch, she embraced it, her face beaming.

She had done it! For the second time in her life, she had a date! And it was with the same boy who asked her to the Prom. Could it mean what Fifi thought it meant? Could it be _more_ than coincidence?

Who knows? Maybe Karma had a hand to play in it, maybe her heart would know what to do when the time came, but for now, Fifi rejoiced in the chance that stood before her.

Skipping blissfully down the sidewalk towards home, Fifi dared to dream, dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, this feeling she felt could very well be what she thought it was.

In another twenty-four hours, she would know for certain.

* * *

Hamton felt fifty pounds lighter as he stood there in the school hallway, watching Fifi walk away, her purple and white tail bobbing with each step she took. His heart was pounding so hard it was a surprise he didn't go into cardiac arrest. But there was no pain in this pounding, none at all. There was a wonderful blend of surprise, a smidgen of welcomed shock, and a lovely dash of pure bliss.

Fifi had just asked him out. Fifi La Fume had asked _him_ , Hamton J. Pig, out on a date!

Now, granted, he didn't know for certain if Fifi thought it was a date — she didn't explicitly use the word "date" — but surely that's what she meant, right?

Hamton found that he didn't really care. Fifi La Fume had just asked him, Hamton, out this Saturday!

His smile was itching to tear itself from his face; he couldn't take much more waiting.

Finally, Fifi walked through the door and, after what felt like a year's wait in watching it close, Hamton bent his knees, jumped into the air and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"

Fireworks filled the hall. A brass band began playing "Stars and Stripes Forever." A stadium-sized applause flooded through Hamton's ears, cheering on his good fortune. All the while, he was still suspended in midair, all physics rendered useless. He was so high off the ground he felt his knuckles gracing the clouds.

Hamton drifted gently back down to Earth, his heart fluttering as though he were caught in a dream. Thankfully, though, he wasn't. He could feel the strain in his face because of his smiling, and, unexpectedly, was also feeling a hard patting on his shoulder.

"Way to go, Hamton!" Buster exclaimed, gripping his shoulder with congratulations.

"What a thing to happen!" Plucky laughed, lightly punching Hamton's other side. "Who would've thought?"

From behind, a pair of arms pulled Hamton into a tight hug.

"Oh, Hamton! How wonderful!" said Babs, beaming, hugging him tighter. "This couldn't be more perfect for you!"

Then, as though his happiness had kicked into overdrive again, Hamton was lifted into the air and was facing a levitating Shirley. "Good fortune smiles upon you! I said it before, Hamton: your good karma will reward you. And she has."

Hamton was lowered back down to the floor, where a furry hand reached over and shook Hamton's vigorously. Furrball was beaming with the same glee he had shown when he was permitted shelter into Hamton's house.

Taking what felt like the first breath of air after a whole three minutes of excitement, Hamton asked, quite unnecessarily, "You guys heard?"

"Yeah, we listened from around the corner," said Buster. "Plucky nearly stumbled over when Fifi popped the question."

"I _would_ have if Shirley hadn't caught me," Plucky commented, earning a smirk from Shirley. "But, man oh man, Hamton! Who would've thought it? I wonder what made Fifi want to do it. . . ."

"Yeah...," said Hamton curiously, wondering the same thing. "Did she say anything to the two of you?" he asked to Babs and Shirley.

"Who cares why she wants to do it?" said Buster eagerly. "She _wants_ to go on a date with you, Hamton. That's what matters!"

Hamton could feel his cheeks flushing. "Well . . . we don't know for _sure_ if it's a date. Fifi didn't say —"

"Oh, come on, Hamton!" said Plucky, laughing. "Fifi came up to you and asked, in private, if you wanted to spend time with her — _just the two of you_. If that means _anything_ other than 'I want to date you', then we all need to relearn English!"

Hamton couldn't help but chuckle. "I hope that's what she meant."

But as he said this, a sudden realization ran through Hamton's head like an electric shock.

Fifi La Fume had just asked him out. Whether it was a date or not, one fact was for certain: Fifi wanted to spend time with him, _just_ with him. And it was going to happen tomorrow, in twenty-four hours. . . .

This realization had felt like a wonderful, sparkling dream a mere minute ago. But now, as Hamton fully realized what it meant, he felt a new feeling flow through his stomach: anxiety.

He had never, in his whole life, been on a date with a girl. True, he had asked Fifi to the Prom, but that was just something everyone did — you don't have to be in a relationship to ask someone to the Prom.

Was _that_ what this was to Fifi? Just two friends hanging out with each other? Was Hamton getting worked up for something that was much less than it really was?

"Hey, Hamton, don't worry," said Babs, who seemed to guess what Hamton was dreading. "It _is_ a date. Trust me, I know, I'm a girl. We girls can spot these sorts of things a mile away."

Hamton didn't disagree, because he wanted to believe Babs' and Plucky's assertions. He didn't want to listen to the nagging possibility that poked inside his mind, telling him that Fifi's reasons were entirely plutonic.

"So," said Shirley, bringing Hamton out of his nervous thinking, "where are you planning to go with Fifi tomorrow, Hamton?"

Hamton opened his mouth, but closed it again, struggling to think clearly.

"There'll be time to think on that later," said Buster. "Hamton has a whole twenty-four hours. That's should be plenty of time for him to think."

Hamton, looking up at the wall clock and feeling his throat tighten, hoped beyond hope that Buster was right about this, because those twenty-four hours just turned to 23 hours and 45 minutes.

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	21. Cleaning and Scheming

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Thank you very much.**

* * *

 **Chapter 21**

 _Cleaning and Scheming_

 _~Friday, Dec. 12th~_

"Okay, Furrball," said Hamton, locking the house's front door. "We have three houses. I'll meet up with you at the third. You have the address and your house key?"

Furrball reached into his coat's pocket and pulled out a shining metal key wrapped around a slip of paper.

"Good," said Hamton. "Well, we better get going. It's gonna get dark soon. See you soon, Furrball. I'll tell Babs you said 'hi'."

Furrball meowed and waved goodbye, and at once, the two boys set off in opposite directions down the sidewalk, each carrying a duffel bag full of cleaning supplies.

Passing the first block and making his way through the rest of the frosted neighborhood, Hamton was smiling and humming "Happy Feet," with light dancing to boot. Never minding that he slipped on frozen snow every once and again, he kept up his rejoicing spirit. The fact that he and Fifi were going to be spending time together tomorrow — just the two of them — felt as good as an early Christmas present. It didn't matter that it was frigidly cold outside or that the sky above was a dull gray; It could've been a blazing summer afternoon given how good Hamton was feeling right now.

A couple minutes into his walk, putting both the neighborhood and country road behind him, he came to a gap in the otherwise dense barrier of snow-covered trees and entered the Acme Forest. Though it would be an hour or so more before the sun set, it was already dark here. The forest was shadowy in most places, save for a few helpful strips of sun light. The terrain was bumpy and uneven. Snow laid in large mounds all over at the bases of trees and in slivers on the million outstretched branches.

Hamton, thankfully, didn't have to trek through all of this. There was a clear trail where the snow had been flattened out due to several rabbit tracks leading both inward and outward. One set led to a clearing where Hamton caught sight of a familiar stump. A basketball hoop was tied to a nearby tree and, close by, was another with a tire swing hanging down from a thick branch, packed and covered with snow. Before walking past it, Hamton spotted a mailbox which reach "Buster Bunny."

How Buster managed to get mail delivered all the way out here where there was no road remained a mystery, but not a crucial one. This was a cartoon world after all (not everything had to be explained).

"Probably has airmail," Hamton theorized.

He pressed on, walking under a hundred bare branches and again into a shaded dense of towering trunks. There was just enough illumination through the cracks in the forest canopy for Hamton to make out the rabbit tracks leading him on to his destination.

Walking out from this shady patch, Hamton came upon another clearing silightly different from Buster's. It was surrounded by evenly spaced trees and was located atop a large hill that rolled down smoothly into Acme Acres. Looking outward, Hamton could see the towering silhouette of the school's clock tower and the tops of a few city skyscrapers. The snow around this clearing was much lower than the rest of the forest as though someone had shoveled most of it away.

Standing where he was and eyeing the rabbit tracks on the snowy ground, Hamton followed them to a small earthly mound which was surrounded by wilted flowerbeds, all blanketed in white.

His footsteps crunched in the snow as he approached, and, just as he was two feet away, he heard a lock click as though a door had just opened, though no door was visible anywhere. At that moment, a dim glow of lantern light leaked out from the rabbit hole. Next, a pair of long pink ears set with purple bows at the ends rose out. They gave a twitch, and then the rest of Babs' head and shoulders appeared.

"Hey, Hamton," she said pleasantly. "I thought I recognized your footsteps. Come on in."

She disappeared back down the way she came. Hamton approached, got down to his knees and edged over to the hole where, pressed against the frozen soil, a wooden ladder led down into a low tunnel. Hamton sucked in his gut to fit through, pulling his duffel bag along with him.

He let out a deep breath as soon as his flabby ears were under the surface. It was cold at first going down the hole, but as he descended, it got warmer. Hamton didn't understand this, seeing as there was no door to prevent heat from escaping. After a few more careful steps, he touched down onto a dirt-covered floor with his bag. Babs reached up to the hole, pushed the bottom half of the ladder upwards, then flipped a metal port hatch which covered the hole's opening. Locking the hatch with a hook, Babs then walked over towards a regular sized door. Its hinges were set into the soil and the top, sides, and bottom looked insulated.

She opened it and Hamton followed her inside. Instantly, Hamton was greeted by the wonderful cozy warmth that filled the underground home.

Hamton had only been down here a few times before in the past, when he and the rest of his friends hanged out on occasion. He was standing on a rug set at the edge of a cozy little living room. The color of brown was in every direction he looked, making all the other colors on the furniture, TV, and framed photographs stand out. The reason for the mass array of brown was due to the simple fact that the walls, floor, AND ceiling were made of dirt.

Normally, Hamton had no patience for anything dirt-related; the sight of this house would've been enough to drive away any person who believed cleanliness was next to happiness. But, in Hamton's case, Buster and Babs' homes were the exception. If one looked past all the solid dirt, the house was as homey as any home could be. And, for whatever reason, the massive amount of soil never made the house any dirtier, almost as though the dirt were drawn not to come loose (WINK).

"Nice Christmas tree, Babs," said Hamton, pointing to the pine tree standing in the corner. It was bespeeched with the traditional colored lights and silver garland, but in place of baubles or ornaments, nearly every branch was decorated with — go ahead and laugh — carrots. Hamton certainly laughed, "Beautiful _and_ appetizing."

"Thanks," said Babs, grinning. "Yeah, all the ornaments are new. My family ate all of last years, but then again, we do every year. Makes taking it down not so sad. Anyway, this way, Hamton," and she led him into a kitchen where a tall adult rabbit in a dress and apron where standing with her back turned at a counter. "Hey, Mom. Hamton's here."

She turned, and for whatever reason, Hamton couldn't see any farther up than the top of her neck just before it met her jaw. It was as though he were looking at a photo or video where the person's head was poking out of the frame and beyond sight.

"Oh, hello, Hamton," said Babs's mother. "It's been a while since you were last here. How's Winnie and Wade?"

"Fine, Mrs. Bunny," said Hamton. "I saw my parents yesterday, actually. We had dinner, then they went off again on one of their trips," Hamton ended with a laugh.

"Oh, those two," she shook her head with amusement (at least, Hamton think she did — she certainly sounded amused). "Always one business trip after the next, like Babs' father. Anyway, " she said, walking over to another door, "I greatly appreciate your offer to clean for us, Hamton. With a family like ours, it can become a bit tough at times."

She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Hamton stepped forward to look, and gaped at what he saw.

Inside what looked to be a second larger living room, were several — maybe around 50 — rabbits, all younger than Babs, were scuttling and playing on the floor, couch, and with each other. Long ears waved and large rabbit feet padded the floor as Hamton looked from one side of the room to the next; there was very little of the floor that wasn't covered with at least one small rabbit. They seemed so preoccupied with their own actions that they didn't notice Hamton or the sound of him dropping his duffel bag in surprise.

"I've always said I have a big family, Hamton," said Babs, grinning at his surprised look.

"And having such a big family keeps me busy," said Babs mother, "especially with the holidays drawing so close. It can get so overwhelming at times, so I appreciate your job offer, Hamton."

"No problem," said Hamton, and he glanced around the room. "So . . . where would you like to me to start?"

"Hmm . . . let's see. Everyone!" she called loudly to the young rabbits. Every one of them stopped what they were doing and looked up at their mother. "The cleaner is here and needs to start on the living room. So please, all of you, head on to your rooms. None of you are to bother him while he's working, got it?"

They all nodded, and, in one quick motion of large, scurrying feet, a cloud of white dust filled the room. Hamton, Babs, and Babs's mother coughed as the cloud thinned away and showed an empty but very messy living room.

"How many rooms does your house have?" Hamton asked, wondering how on earth one hole could hold so many rabbits.

"Quite a lot," said Babs simply. "Luckily, living underground has its advantages. Very easy to tunnel in a few extra rooms if we need to, plus my Dad's job pays more than enough to buy the beds and stuff."

"Convenient," Hamton said. "So . . . what can I do for you two?"

"You can start, if you like, Hamton, with the floor," said Babs's mother.

One look and Hamton agreed it would be the best place in the room to start. It was littered with overturned toys (some broken), plus candy wrappers, batteries for the TV remote, disheveled couch and chair cushions, and, among other things, a few clumps of dirt.

"Then you can start on the walls," continued Mrs. Bunny, motioning here and there, "and readjust the frames, dust the bookshelves and place back the books that had fallen to the floor — any order will do. Oh, and Babs, dear, if it's not too much trouble, could you help Hamton push the furniture back against the walls when he's finished with the floor?"

"Sure, Mom," said Babs.

"For now, though, I want you to go and do your homework. And no calling Harriet, Shirley, Buster, or any of your other friends. Work first, fun later. Understand, Babs?" she finished in a serious tone.

"Yes, Mom . . ." Babs responded with annoyance.

"Good," she said. "Now, I'm going out to get a few things for dinner. Would you like to stay and eat with us, Hamton?"

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mrs. Bunny," said Hamton kindly. "I have to help clean another house later with a friend."

"All right. I should be back by the time you finish. Hope it's not too much trouble," she said, and with that she walked out of the living room and towards the door leading to the tunnel which housed the hole that led to the surface.

Hamton heard the door close with a light slam and turned back to glance at the floor, looking for a place to start. From the large number of toys to couch pillows to the many scattered coloring books, crayons and pencils, it looked like any place would be as good as any.

"Should I start with the toys?" he asked Babs.

"Wouldn't be a bad idea," Babs replied. "Mortimer can get very cranky when he doesn't have his coloring books and Emily's a real beast when her building blocks aren't within range."

Reaching down into his duffel bag, Hamton pulled out some plastic gloves and slipped them on.

"Is it hard having so many brothers and sisters?" Hamton asked curiously.

"Oh no, not usually," said Babs with a careless wave. "You might not believe it, Hamton, but half the time I don't even know they're here. Seriously, back when _Tiny Toons_ was still on the air, it was like they all disappeared for a certain length of time and then just reappeared with no explanation. That's weird, even for a cartoon."

"Yeah . . . but, oh well," Hamton said with delightful shrug.

"That's my reaction, too," said Babs, smirking. "Well, I better go do my Calculations work, on a _Friday_ ," she finished with an irritated grumble.

"It's just a few word problems for Granny," said Hamton with a shrug. "You can do most of them over the weekend."

"Yeah, you're right. . . . I _guess_ I can do at least one for tonight. I don't think Mom'll be mad about that. Just knock on my door if you need anything, Hamton." Babs turned and walked to the door that led into the hallway, but stopped just before crossing through. "Oh, and by the way, Hamton, given all the siblings I have, your head might spin at the number of doors there are in this house. Mine's the one that isn't covered by stickers, scratches, crayon drawings, or 'Proceed with Caution' branded into the wood — just so you know."

Despite the living room being so spacious, it didn't take Hamton nearly as much time to clean it as he initially thought.

After the toys, cushions, and coloring books were picked up and sorted, he organized the books back to their shelves in alphabetical order — just for the sake of being tidy. Then, with a wet rag and Acme Anti-Dust Spray, Hamton wiped down the bookshelves, the coffee table, the TV stand, and the work desk in the corner. Then, after spraying glass cleaner on the photos and TV screen, Hamton finally swept the floor. This took him the longest, as, to his surprise, there was a near inch of filth covering the dirt floor. Finally, he only had the fireplace mantle left to do, which included some small family pictures (one of them of Buster and Babs holding hands on their Prom night), a trophy with a golden carrot sticking out on top, and finally, an old antique mantel clock whose tick sounded much clearer after its face was cleaned.

Babs reappeared soon after to check on things, and together, she and Hamton pulled the furniture out from the walls so he could give the floor a quick sweeping.

The room was hardly recognizable from the state in which Hamton started. Beside the fresh scent of orange cleaner, the dirt floor actually sparked (which was strange, given that there was nothing on the floor to give off a gleam).

Babs let out a low whistle. "Nice job, Hamton."

"Oh, it wasn't too hard," he said modestly. "I'm surprised it didn't take me longer, given the size of this room. Did your mom want help with anything else?"

"No, just the living room," she said, still admiring the floor's cleanliness. "My Mom's usually too busy taking care of everyone to clean the whole place in one day, and this spot was getting particularly bad. She couldn't do it today and so, when I heard that she had to go out for groceries, I thought, 'Hey, why not call you'? So really, Hamton, you gave us a big help."

Hamton smiled appreciatively. "Thanks, Babs," he said, packing away the last of his supplies and zipping up his Jumbo Storage Duffel bag. "Well, I better get going so I can meet up with Furrball. See you later, Babs, and thanks again for this job. And don't worry about the payment. You can give it when we see each other on Monday."

He gripped the handles of his hefty but light bag and was about to turn and leave when —

"Wait, Hamton," said Babs suddenly. "Do you have a couple minutes so we can talk?"

Curious, Hamton glanced over to the mantle clock he had polished. The clear glass face showed that he had at least 20 minutes before he was due to meet Furrball at the next house.

"Uh . . . sure, I guess I have time" he answered, and he joined Babs on the couch. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

Babs folded her hands on her lap and fixed Hamton with the expression one held when they were about to discuss something complex and serious.

"Hamton," said Babs, her voice kind but concerned, "have you given any thought on where you're going to go with Fifi tomorrow?"

This question was stated so remarkably simple that Hamton couldn't understand why his throat went so tight all of a sudden. He had been beaming for the last hour with dreams of holding Fifi's hand as they went about having fun. How, in that entire time, had he not stopped to consider what it was he and Fifi would _do_ with each other?

"Hamton?" Babs asked expectantly.

"Um . . . well . . . I guess I can . . . no, wait," said Hamton, his mind fumbling with ideas that seemed to come only in fragments. He must look stupid, he thought, his eyes darting around the clean living room as though there were something that would give him a clue.

However, he could not deny the importance of the question.

Where _would_ Fifi like to go? What did she like doing for hobbies? And now that Hamton thought of it, how would he pay for anything? He needed all the money he could save to buy Fifi her present, and he still had a long way to go. And why, _why_ did thinking about of all this make it harder to breathe?

Babs, staring worriedly at Hamton, suggested, "The movies, maybe? Or how about the mall, or some ice cream at Frosty's?"

"Actually, Babs . . ." said Hamton, fiddling with his hands. "I think I'll just let Fifi decide where we'd go. I mean, I want her to have a good time. . . ."

"That's very considerate of you, Hamton, but remember, this date isn't just about Fifi," she said, her glance now serious. "It's also about _you_. Don't be surprised if Fifi asks where _you_ would like to go, and I'm almost certain she will."

"But what if she doesn't like what I suggest?" asked Hamton, now imagining a pouty, annoyed Fifi, which made his stomach stir uncomfortably.

"Well, if I know Fifi," said Babs, smiling, "she's won't be too fussy about any place in particular, but if she seems to not like a place, she'll probably just ask if you have anywhere else in mind."

"And if I don't?" asked Hamton fretfully, and already his throat began to clog with fear that his date with Fifi was already heading towards horrific failure. "What if I do something embarrassing? What if I look stupid in front of Fifi?"

"Hamton, enough!" said Babs firmly, impatient with Hamton's self-criticism. "You are _not_ stupid, and I can tell you, without _any_ doubt, that Fifi doesn't think so, either. In all the time I've known her, she has always said very nice things about you."

"Really?" asked Hamton.

"Yes," said Babs honestly. "Hamton, what you're feeling is perfectly normal. First dates are always like this. I felt the same way when me and Buster first started going out. I was afraid I'd seem boring to him or that I wasn't pretty enough. Buster told me himself that he had spent half the date worrying that he might do something to embarrass himself, afraid that I'd think less of him if our date didn't go perfect."

" _Did_ it go perfect?" asked Hamton, not imagining how it couldn't.

"No," Babs answered simply. "We had a few odd moments, and I won't lie, Buster wasn't the only one who did something crazy, but in the end, none of it was a big deal."

Hamton noticed a light blush form in Babs' white furry cheeks, looking as though the memory was both awkward _and_ wonderful.

"But that's the whole point of first dates, Hamton," Babs continued. "You and Fifi need to spend a little time together to see if you two work well together, with both the fun and the crazy going hand-in-hand — metaphorically speaking, of course," she added on a light laugh. "Knowing the two of you, though, I'm sure you two will do fine, so don't worry, okay? Just use what you know about Fifi already and think on that."

"Hmm…" Hamton thought, his mind a little more steady after hearing Babs' words. The living room's mantle clock ticked meekly in the silence.

"Frosty's _would_ be nice," Hamton said musingly. "Or we could go to the Olfactory Factory. I know that Fifi likes it from the last time we were at the Mall. Not to mention," Hamton blushed, "I liked the smells Fifi picked out for me."

"There you go," said Babs approvingly. "Spend a little time to think it over, Hamton. A little pre-planning never hurts, especially with first dates."

Just then, the sound of a door opening came from across the living room. Hamton and Babs looked to see that Mrs. Bunny had returned home. She was carrying a few paper bags in her arms. One, which was stuffed to the torn brim with orange carrots, completely shielded her face.

"Hamton?" she called from behind the brown bags. "You still here?"

"Yeah, right here," he said, getting off the couch and taking two of the bags from her grip. Hamton's eyes went wide as he heaved them into the kitchen — they were much heavier than they looked.

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Bunny, having just placed the last of her groceries onto the kitchen counter. "I hope you had no trouble with the living room."

"Oh, no, none at all," said Hamton in one quick breath, still recovering from carrying the two bags.

Mrs. Bunny walked to the living room and Hamton walked slowly behind, waiting as she assessed his cleaning.

"My…" said Mrs. Bunny, impressed. "I hardly recognize the place. Oh!" she beamed, "and you even dusted the mantle!" and she walked over to admire the dust-free surfaces and the ticking clock at the center.

"You did wonderfully, Hamton!" she said with delight. "Did you, by any chance, finding anything when you and Babs moved the furniture?"

"Actually, yeah," said Hamton, and he pointed over to the corner where a few odd items laid. "An old coloring book, a yo-yo without string, and OH! — and this. I almost forgot." Hamton reached into the pocket of his overalls. "I found these under a couch cushion. Are they yours, Babs?"

He held out his hand and showed Babs two ribbons like the ones she had tied to her ears. Unlike her favorite purple, however, these were a neon green with little red polka-dots. A closer look showed that the dots were actually hearts.

Babs let out a slight gasp. If Hamton hadn't been so close he might not have heard it.

She snatched it out of his palm and gritted her teeth. "Mortimir...," she growled with acidic annoyance.

"Oh, Babs, dear," said Mrs. Bunny, shaking her non-visible head. "You can't know it was him. Besides, you never wear those ribbons, so what's the harm?"

"The harm," said Babs shrewdly, shaking the ribbons as though they had the answer written on them, "is that Buster gave these to me!"

"But Babs, you have never worn them once," said Mrs. Bunny, sounding perplexed. "You even told me last Valentine's Day that green wasn't your style."

"That's doesn't mean they're not important . . ." she stopped as though the words snagged in her throat. She looked back down at the ribbons in her hand. "I mean, Buster gave them to me . . ."

Hamton's heart seemed to warm at the way Babs said Buster's name. But then he heard a soft, deep ticking. He turned to the fireplace mantle.

"Um, excuse me?" called Hamton, eyeing the clock. "Pardon me, ladies, but I need to go pretty soon."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Hamton!" cried Mrs. Bunny. "I almost forgot!"

Reaching into her purse slung over her shoulder, she pulled out a ten-dollar bill with a crinkled side. "Here you go, dear. One for the cleaning and a little something extra for getting under the furniture.

"Huh?" Hamton looked down the dollar in his hand. The crinkled edge, which he thought was part of the dollar, was actually part of another: a five.

"No, Mrs. Bunny," said Hamton modestly. "You don't have to pay me extra for that."

"I know I don't have to," she said kindly though resolutely. "I _wish_ to. It's not every day you have someone willing to clean under our couch and seats, and given the size of our family, you'd be surprised what you can find under there."

Hamton smiled gratefully. "Thanks," he said, and, not daring or wanting to rebuff the generosity, he pocketed his pay. "Well, I better be going. See ya, Babs."

"Bye, Hamton," said Babs, waving as he walked off. "And don't forget: everything will go fine tomorrow. Just be yourself."

"Okay. Good night."

He climbed up the ladder through the narrow hole and reemerged into the now dark forest. Following a path of Acme Solar Powered lights, all attached to the trees, Hamton felt confident that, as nervous as he felt, he just might do well on his date as Babs assured he would.

* * *

"Bye, Parson Brown!" said Elmyra in a singsong voice, waving her newly built snowman goodbye. "Rocky-wokey says Merry Christmas!" she added, holding up her pet rock, his collar dangling in her hand.

Giggling, Elmyra skipped on down the snowy sidewalk, her snow boots kicking up snow with each step, glittering and sparkling in the bright light of the streetlights. She crossed the streets without stopping to check to see if they were clear.

With her eyes closed, she hummed merrily about a winter wonderland as cars honked, tires went rolling without their cars, and, more than once, a sheep could be heard bleating. But Elmyra didn't notice. She was too lost in her solo-caroling, skipping and adoring the feel of snowflakes falling against her face.

When she opened her eyes again, she was standing outside the towering walls of an open gate with three-foot-high green wreaths hanging at each side. She skipped forward down the long stretch of driveway towards an enormous mansion, each of its thousand windows lit. Parked near the front door, was a long limousine made of solid gold.

Inside the mansion, on the 247th floor, Montana Max was shouting.

"No, Grovely! Put present number two-thousand-and-fourteen _on top_ of number one-thousand-five hundred-and-twelve!"

"Yes, sir," drawled the butler, standing atop a tall teetering ladder and reaching to place a fully-wrapped present atop a mountain of other presents.

"And careful not to bump my Christmas tree!" shouted Max, his malicious voice bellowing from far below. "I paid good money to have it cut and delivered from Mount McKinley."

"Yes, I know, sir" said the butler dryly. "I'm the one who cut it down."

"And you did a good job," said Max, his voice holding no kindness.

Grovely leaned forward on the ladder, was just about to lay the present atop the tower of wrapping and ribbon when . . .

"MON-NEY!" chimed the doorbell.

"Oh, what now?" shouted Montana Max, walking out of the room and bumping the ladder, ignoring the crashing sound coming from behind.

The elevator dropped to the bottom floor like a stone within seconds and Max stormed towards the front door and opened it.

"I told you Salvation Army beggars, those orphans ain't getting nothing from me!" he spat, blowing back the orange hair that stood before him.

"Hi, Monty!" said Elmyra lovingly, totally unfazed by Max's outburst, far too used to it by now.

Max's anger subsided slightly, and, in a somewhat less annoyed tone, said, "Oh, hey. What do you want?"

"I just wanted to come and see my Monty-Wonty. Look!" She pointed above the doorway.

Max looked up and saw, to his shock, a mistletoe that hadn't been hanging there before.

"Want an early Christmas present?" asked Elmyra, her tone full of sugar. She closed her eyes and puckered her lips.

Monty's annoyed frown returned and he pinched Elmyra's lips shut. "Thanks, but I think I'll wait 'til December 32nd."

He turned to walk away. Elmyra giggled at Monty's little joke and followed him inside.

She glanced around the enormous foyer: the marble stairs, the golden reflective statues of Monty lining the walls, the fountain that spewed out silver coins instead of water, and the wallpaper made entirely of paper currency, most of it green dollars.

"OOOOOOOOH!" said Elmyra. "Sparkly shiny!" She adored the reflective surfaces, laughing at how they became distorted by all the bends and curves. But then Elmyra stopped and looked puzzled. "Monty, where's your holiday decorations?"

"On every floor above your head," grumbled Monty. "I don't want my presents on the first floor where visitors might get funny ideas."

Again, Elmyra giggled. "Oh, Rocky," she said, holding up her pet rock. "Didn't I tell you he was funny? That's my Monty: rich, handsome, _and_ a talented comedian. Triple-threat guy!"

Flattered and smug, Monty said, "Ah, it's nothing. I'm just naturally fantas…tic. Hey, wait a minute!" He turned sharply and looked back at Elmyra. "Who the heck were you talking to?"

"My new pet," said Elmyra, holding him out in her mitten. "Rocky."

Montana Max squinted at the thing in Elmyra's hand. Stepping closer, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him, he stopped a few feet from Elmyra, who was still beaming.

"What the. . ." he said. "That thing's a rock!"

"Yeah, I know, Monty," said Elmyra, beaming. "A pet rock, to be precise. I got him just two days ago."

Monty blinked. "You wasted perfectly good money for something you could've just dug out of the ground?" he burst out, overcome at her stupidity.

"Oh, no," said Elmyra, shaking her head. "I _paid_ to have someone do it."

This was news to Monty. He knew of Elmyra's notorious reputation for being a natural repellant for animals, and really, who could blame them? He, for one, knew how tightly Elmyra could hug.

"Who'd be desperate enough to try and find _you_ a pet?" he asked, scowling.

"Mr. Piggy-Wiggy and the shaggy Kitty Cat Meow-Meow."

Monty blinked again. "Who?"

"Hamton and Furrball," Elmyra clarified. "I saw an ad on the school bulletin boards and they were offering to do work in exchange for money. I know they asked for only ten dollars, but I offered them fifty. I think it was a smart decision, because it only took them one day to find my cute little Rocky." Cooing, she pressed her cheek against her rock, petting him like he was a puppy.

Montana Max, meanwhile, watched the rock without seeing it. His mind had gone abuzz with wicked intent.

"So . . . Hamton and Furrball," he said, making sure he understood this. "They took the job with no complaints? They didn't stop with awkward silence and think it over?"

Elmyra stopped hugging her rock. "Hmm . . ." she said thoughtfully, "now that you mention it, they did. They didn't look too interested, but when I said I'd be willing to pay them fifty dollars, they took it. I don't really blame them. I had asked the same question to a few others before and they had just laughed —"

"So, you're saying," Monty interrupted, "that they'll be willing to do almost anything so long as the price is high?"

"I . . . guess so," said Elmyra uncertainly. "I'm not sure, but it sounds like Mr. Piggy is raising money for something."

But Monty stopped listening after 'I guess so.'

"Monty?" asked Elmyra, curious at the devious smile stretched out over his face.

He let out a light, evil laugh.

Reaching into his shirt jacket, he Monty pulled out a foot-long cell phone.

 **(A.N. - Ahh…technology in the 90s)**

Grinning heinously, he quickly dialed a number, and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Grovely!" said Monty. "Clear my schedule for tomorrow afternoon." There was a pause. "No, I'm not going anywhere. Just planning a little entertainment here at home." He grinned evilly.

And meanwhile, as Monty became absorbed in his nefarious scheming, Elmyra stood there on the polished marble floor, watching, stroking her pet rock, wondering without a clue what Monty was planning, but admiring him as she always did, hoping determinedly that she might get her Christmas kiss another day.

 _$920 to go - 12 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	22. Monty's Mansion of Misery PART I

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Thank you very much.**

* * *

 **Chapter 22**

 _Monty's Mansion of Misery_

 _PART I_

 _~Saturday, Dec. 13th~_

Hamton and Furrball woke next morning with groans, moans, and the need to stretch at least a dozen or so tight spots in their arms and legs.

The third house they had cleaned last night turned out to be a far greater chore than either of them could've imagined.

* * *

"Ah, hello, little fat piggy," came the signature voice of Arnold the Pitbull, his powerful white biceps pumping two 500-pound dumbbells, looking down through his dark sunglasses. "And I see you brought the raggedy kitty cat."

Furrball stepped behind Hamton, not wanting to be in Arnold's dark, sunglassed gaze. Bad history, probably, Hamton thought. Or maybe just the stereotypical dog versus cat feud.

"Well, perhaps all the better," said Arnold. "I have a lot more for you to do this time."

Hamton and Furrball followed him into the house.

"You want me to clean your mirror collection and statue _again_?" Hamton asked anxiously. The idea of dusting that statue a second time made him shudder.

"What? Oh, no, my collection and statue are fine. Good job again, by the way," said Arnold, showing them to a door at the end of the hallway. "It's Arnolda's I want you to clean this time."

"Arnolda?" Hamton and Furrball said together, the latter in meows.

"Yeah, remember? My drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend who you all saw at the Prom," Arnold clarified.

They stopped at a door with a portrait hanging on the front, showing a pitbull that was nearly identical to Arnold but clearly female. The part of her being 'drop-dead gorgeous' was purely Arnold's opinion.

"Thirty dollars are yours when you both are done," he said.

"Thirty?" said Hamton, surprised by Arnold's unusually generous offer.

"Yeah, thirty. Can't you hear? I said I have a lot for you to do, so I figure thirty is a fair deal." He turned the doorknob and threw the door open.

Hamton and Furrball looked inside. A second later, their eyes went wide, their jaws hit the floor, and their faces took on a deep blush. Everything that was inside . . . well, it's probably best not to go into detail. Let's just say Arnold's feelings for Arnolda was greatly expressed in "certain ways", with more than enough work to keep Hamton and Furrball busy — all for a good solid six hours.

* * *

After having showered and dressed, Hamton joined Furrball in the kitchen for breakfast.

"I never dreamed a person could collect that many of someone else's underwear," said Hamton, shuddering slightly as he took a bite of his pancakes.

Furrball nodded and drank some orange juice. He let out a few meows.

"I know," said Hamton, nodding. "I wonder if Arnolda knows he's making that mosaic of her face using broken bits of mirror. I would be impressed if I didn't see my face in hers every time I looked."

But Hamton didn't have long to think back to this odd detail of his and Furrball's six-hour job. Finishing up his breakfast, he took his and Furrball's plates and walked to the sink to do the dishes. There were only two forks, plates and glasses, but Hamton washed them anyway because it gave himself something to do as his thoughts scrambled and turned madly.

Today was a big day. . . . Today, he and Fifi would be going out . . . out on a date. At least, it certainly felt like a date, even though the precise word had never passed Fifi's lips.

Hamton's hands gave off a tremble in the soapy water at the thought of Fifi's lips. He paused, shook his head, and started to scrub.

 _Think of something else_ , he told himself sternly. _Never mind how wonderful Fifi's lips are! Come on, focus!_

Almost instantly, Hamton's chat with Babs the other day resurfaced, and this bombarded him with a whole slew of questions in regards to Fifi.

Where was Hamton going to take her? While he would certainly let Fifi take lead in part of the date, Babs was right in what she said: this date was about the _two_ of them, so he would also have to play his part and do his best in showing Fifi a good time, because out of everything else (including a few tender words he was dying to say aloud), Hamton wanted to show Fifi a good time.

But still the question remained: where was he going to take her?

Hamton pulled the plug from the sink and watched the sudsy water swirl down the drain, his gaze hard and determined.

"Hmm . . . let's see," Hamton muttered, drying the dishes with a towel. "Weenie Burger, maybe . . ."

The popular fast-food restaurant formed inside his head, including all the greasy but delicious foods. Then the dirty floors, probably more so because of the melted snow prints. Then the bored looks on the cashiers. How crowded it was bound to be on Saturday, its busiest day. The smudges of food on Hamton's cheeks. . . .

Hamton froze while wiping a plate.

"Nope! No, definitely _not_ there," he said determinedly. _Doesn't sound anywhere near romantic_ , he added in his head, because he was too shy to say it aloud.

Hamton stacked the clean plate atop the other clean one.

The Mall, maybe? It sounded like a good idea when Babs suggested it. There's definitely plenty of places he and Fifi could go, and Dr. Olfactor's Aroma Factory was perhaps the perfect choice. Hamton loved it when a clean room had a refreshing scent to go along with it, so maybe he and Fifi could have some fun there.

And then there was Frosty's, Hamton thought, remembering again what Babs said. If there's one thing Hamton knew he and Fifi had in common besides baking, it was that he and her both loved ice cream. The first day of December was still fresh inside his memory, when Fifi had treated him and the others after winning her gift certificate in the school talent show. Frosty's would definitely be a solid choice.

But as Hamton placed the last dry fork back in the silverware drawer, something very crucial and obvious reared its ugly head.

How would Hamton pay for everything on the date?

He needed every cent he could save at the moment; He was determined to get Fifi that bottle of Du Coeur. He also couldn't take any of the spare money he had put aside for his friends (which was still resting safely in his desk drawer). There was also no way he could ask Furrball for any of the money he earned last weekend at Wacky Land. He was poor and needed money more than Hamton did, not to mention he more than payed for his living expenses by helping out.

Hamton placed down his dish towel and then sighed. There was just no other option. He was going to have to take a little money out from his savings for Fifi's gift. He could only hope he wouldn't have to spend too much.

 _I still have time_ , Hamton told himself. _I still have time. . ._ .

He joined Furrball in the living room and decided to take a break by watching TV. No calls for job requests had been made and Hamton felt both relieved and somewhat stressed by that. On the one hand, it was good to just sit down and rest on a Saturday morning, spending time with his friend and eagerly awaiting a date Hamton had dreamed about since prom. Then again . . . him being completely free until 3:00 that afternoon with no jobs meant he wouldn't be making any money today, and, as his calendar so kindly reminded him, he was already halfway through his time limit to get Fifi's present on the 23rd.

All these thoughts of hand-holding and rushing to make that last dollar swirled around in Hamton's head so that he couldn't hear what was playing on TV. Furrball, sitting next to him, seemed to understand what was going on with Hamton and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

Hamton steadied himself and smiled thankfully at Furrball. Though the thoughts remained, Hamton knew there was no use worrying. Right now, he will enjoy the time he had, and whatever was coming next would come whether he was ready or not.

And after just five peaceful minutes, it did.

The telephone rang, drowning the sound of the Saturday morning cartoon. Hamton left his seat on the couch and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he said. Out came a familiar, unpleasant voice.

"Hey, Hambone. How's it going?"

Hamton froze, the receiver still held to his ear. Looking over at Furrball, he could tell by the cat's startled face that he had heard it too. He hopped from his seat and walked over to listen better.

"Montana Max?" said Hamton bewilderedly.

"Yep, it's me, pork chop!" Monty answered in his harsh, amused voice.

Hamton could almost visualize the rich boy sitting at a desk made of solid gold, his feet propped up, looking utterly smug.

"Anyway," Monty said in the distinctive tone of a business man, "word on the street is you're looking to make yourself a little money."

"Yeah. . . I am," said Hamton uneasily.

"Well, I've got a job for you!"

Hamton's breathing halted in his throat. At the same time, an alarm seemed to go off inside his head — a sign that read "DANGER" in billboard-sized letters.

Furrball also heard the mental alarm. He was shaking his head frantically at Hamton and clearly mouthing the word 'No!'

"Uh, actually, Monty," Hamton said quickly, "I don't know if I'm . . . well, you know, skilled enough to work for someone as rich as you. I mean, surely you can find —"

"Oh, I don't mind offering you a job, buddy," said Monty.

Hamton nearly fell over, as did Furrball. As far back as either of them could recall, Monty had never, EVER called _anyone_ 'buddy', least of all Hamton and his friends.

Nervous but curious, Hamton asked, "What kind of job do you mean? Cleaning?"

"Oh, no," said Monty, smirking devilishly even though Hamton could not see it. "I have all the assistance I need when it comes to picking up after myself. Instead, I have a couple . . . 'tasks' here at home that I need help with. Sound interested?"

Furrball was shaking his head again. Hamton didn't need telling twice. Whatever these 'tasks' were, they couldn't mean _anything_ good, especially coming from Montana Max.

"Uh, sorry, Monty," said Hamton, scratching the back of his head. "I just don't think I'm . . . uh, qualified for something like —"

"I'll pay you five-hundred dollars," Monty said bluntly.

Hamton's grip on the phone loosened a little. Furrball's mouth fell open. The whole house had gone so quiet, they could hear the winter wind blowing outside.

"F-F-Five h-hundred —" Hamton stammered, hardly able to believe it.

"Yes," said Monty, smirking. "Five- _Hundred_ -Dollars! One five. Two zeros. All in cash. And all you have to do to earn it is come over to my place and do a few things for me."

Hamton couldn't find the strength to speak.

"Tell you what," said Monty calmly. "I'll wait and you give exactly a minute to think this over. Choose carefully, though. This is a one-time offer. I'll need your answer the instant this minute's up. Go!"

Knowing he would need every last second, Hamton covered the mouth piece of the receiver with his hand, lowered it from his ear, and looked up at Furrball.

"What should I do?" Hamton whispered, more out of stress than fear of Monty hearing.

Furrball looked conflicted. In a split-second, he rushed over and grabbed a pencil and a very large notepad. Pencil in hand, his hand flew across the pad, the pencil's tip scratching the paper.

He flipped the page over and Hamton saw two magnificently detailed drawings. One was of Fifi waving 'hi', the other was of a clock, its hands positioned at 3:00.

Furrball tapped the clock hard with his finger.

Understanding, Hamton removed his hand and spoke, "Monty? Would you like me to come and do the work right now?"

"Sure, I guess," he said. "I got nothing planned for today."

Hamton lowered the phone again and looked at Furrball. "Do you think it'll take long?" he whispered.

Furrball shrugged. With the notepad in hand, he drew another picture at lightning speed, his pencil waving so quickly that it blurred. He blew away the eraser shavings and turned over the pad. This time he had drawn a scale, like the kind they have in courtrooms. A giant dollar sign sat in the upper end and Fifi in the lower end. Underneath the scale's base were the words, "NO LATER THAN 2:00!"

Then, with a look of utmost seriousness, Furrball pointed hard at Fifi's picture.

Hamton stared at the drawing, then back up at Furrball. Determined, Hamton gave a sharp nod, then raised the phone to his lips. "Okay, Monty. I'll come over there now. But if it takes me too long, I'll have to decline, money or no money."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Hamton had only ever spoken to Montana Max with this much seriousness once before: when he scared Monty out of fighting him so that he, Hamton, could help his friends.

Finally, Monty said, "Fine. Come over in ten minutes. I'll meet you at the front door." And without another word, the phone gave a tiny click; Monty had hung up.

Hamton put down the phone and looked at Furrball. He was still giving Hamton a look of dead-seriousness, but it was much softer compared to the first time.

"I promise," said Hamton, "I won't let it take up too much of my time. Of course Fifi's more important — _most_ important, in fact," Hamton added.

Furrball walked forward and gave Hamton's shoulder a soft squeeze. The look in the blue cat's eyes were understanding, but no less firm. He didn't approve of this idea, but knew why Hamton was doing it and chose not to object.

With no time to lose, Hamton hurriedly walked out of the living room and pulled on his winter coat and hat. A moment later, he was at the open doorway.

Rubbing his already chilled hands, Hamton said, "I guess I'll talk to you later, Furrball. At least, I hope so. . ."

Furrball looked at him, his look now somewhat worried. He let out three meows.

Hamton knew what they translated to: "Be careful."

* * *

His hands numb against the bitterly cold morning air, Hamton rushed through his neighborhood and made his way to One Hundred Million Dollar Boulevard where Monty's mansion stood. His lungs felt heavy and his throat throbbed and ached as he ran. Hamton didn't want to waste any more time than he could spare. No way on Earth was he going to miss out on his date with Fifi, even if it meant throwing away five-hundred dollars.

However, despite his dedication and excitement for later this afternoon, Hamton was too busy worrying about what Monty had in store for him. He knew it couldn't be anything pleasant, and the fact that he was rushing towards Monty's mansion out of his own free will, perfectly aware that something dreadful most likely awaited him, felt tantamount to embarrassing.

What horrors awaited him inside the mansion? A man-eating shark? Jumping into a sea of beartraps? Being strapped to a chair and forced to watch Daffy Duck do stand-up comedy? Or worse, being put on a treadmill and forced to run a marathon!

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather coursed through Hamton's blood like electricity.

"I can handle it," he said determinedly, crossing the street and onto a sidewalk where the sunlight shone brightly. "I'll do it for Fifi."

And at once, Hamton felt less tired and hardly noticed the dullness in his throat as he ran past the snow-covered houses and towards a building as tall as a mountain, decorated with a billion Christmas lights.

He ran through the open gates with the golden dollar signs, down the half-mile walkway, past the fountain where a statue of Monty was spitting a frozen stream of water, and finally stopped at the solid gold oak doors.

He pressed the diamond doorbell.

"MON-NEY!"

The door opened, revealing Montana Max, his expression unnaturally friendly.

"Hey, Hamton," he said. "Thanks for coming so early."

Swallowing, Hamton stepped inside, where he was led towards the elevator.

"So." Monty placed his hand on Hamton's shoulder, who felt as though it were closing around his throat. "Are you ready to make five-hundred bucks?"

Hamton gulped, then said, "Well . . . uh, I guess so. What do you want me to do?"

"I'll show you when we get there."

The elevator gave off a DING and its doors opened. Hamton and Monty stepped inside the small space, and, as the doors closed once more, Hamton began to seriously wonder how five-hundred dollars would feel after this was all over.

The elevator rose speedily upwards and stopped with a sudden jerk. There was another DING and the doors pulled apart to reveal a long hallway. Hamton and Monty stepped out onto a stretch of clean red carpet marked with golden dollar signs. There was only one window here, a large one at the hall's end which showed the bright blue sky. The place was lit by a long row of fluorescent bulbs that stretched from one end of the hallway to the other. They illuminated a number of closed doors as well as a number of paintings, all of which contained a random yet seemingly normal image.

Hamton and Monty walked forward and stopped at the door closest to the elevator, beside which hung a painting of a jack-in-the-box.

Hamton frowned at the picture. Why was that there?

"Okay, pork chop," said Monty is a business-like voice, "you want five-hundred dollars, you're going to have to work for it."

"I know," said Hamton grudgingly.

"Good to know you understand that much, peasant. Now for the details. I have ten simple things I want you to do for me. _Ten_ things," Monty clarified. "The first is behind door number one here." He motioned to the door they were standing besides, then yelled, "GROVELY!"

In literally two seconds, the well-mannered butler zipped into the hall and stopped, causing a gust of wind to blow past Hamton. The polite-looking man took a moment to straighten his bowtie and brush the sleeve of his black suit jacket. And when he spoke, his voice was one of forced interest: somewhat dry yet clearly attentive. "You called, Master Monty?"

"Yeah, Grovely. Give fatty here the item for Door Number One," Monty ordered.

"Yes, Sir." Grovely reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a watering can. "Here you are, my good man," he said kindly.

Hamton took the can. It was full of water.

"Okay," said Monty. "I want you to walk inside and water the plant that sitting in the corner."

Hamton stared at Monty, at the wicked gleam in the rich boy's eyes.

"Is . . . that all?" he asked.

"That's right," said Monty, smirking. "Just water that one plant, then we'll move on to the next room."

He stepped aside from the door and stood next to Grovely, the two contrasting each other greatly: one being of quiet politeness, the other of wicked intent.

Hamton, with the watering can in hand, swallowed silently, and, wondering what he was about to see, reached for the doorknob. He turned it and pushed the door open. He looked inside.

He was standing before a small, clean, brightly lit living room, with a couch, TV, nightstand, and a small fig tree resting in the corner by the large frosted window, a few of its leaves strewn on the floor. For some reason, the ceiling above the tree was cracked in places.

Without looking at either Monty or Grovely, Hamton inhaled through his nose and stepped inside.

He stopped on the first step and slowly exhaled, as though expecting the floor to explode or collapse. It didn't. He took another step in the direction of the plant, then another, and another, and in no time he stood on a dry leaf which crackled beneath his foot.

The poor tree looked in much worse shape than Hamton first thought. Though it had an excellent spot of sunlight, it looked like it hadn't been hydrated in months.

Happily, Hamton lifted the watering can and started to pour.

The water soaked the soil and the base of the tree. As Hamton continued to water, he caught sight of what looked like a tag stuck on the side of the tree's pot, its metal shining in the sun. He glanced closer to read it.

"ACME Frightening Fig," he read. Hamton paused, confused. "ACME Frightening Fig? What does —"

But before Hamton could register what this meant, there came a very sudden, ear-piercing SCREEEEEECH!

The next thing Hamton knew, his head made contact with something very hard. After a second of falling, his back hit the floor and the watering can fell out of his grip, spilling over the carpet.

From behind, Montana Max was laughing his head off. He too had collapsed over, his fist pounding the floor as he guffawed with chuckles. Grovely just stood watching, stiff as a board and blinking without a titter.

Confused, Hamton stood up on the now damp carpet and took another look at the fig tree in front of him. Its branches were stretched into a shape that looked like crooked, menacing hands, and if Hamton's hearing was correct, he thought he heard the plant fighting back chuckles of its own.

ACME Frightening Fig. . . . It had been the plant that screeched that horrible sound.

Hamton looked up. There, in the cracked ceiling, was the small, dark dent where his head had struck when he shot up in fright.

 _Of course_ , Hamton thought dryly, turning around where Monty was still laughing himself hoarse. Of course this is what Monty had planned for him. This was nothing more than the rich boy's chance for a couple of cruel laughs at Hamton's expense.

Hamton's lips tightened and he felt his face grow hot. He walked to the doorway.

Finally catching his breath, Monty wiped away a few tears and stood up. "Need to use the bathroom, Pig? Hope you didn't wet yourself."

"No, I didn't, " Hamton said heatedly, thankful beyond hope that he hadn't wet himself. "Very funny, Monty. I guess you've had your laugh for the day. Now, if you excuse me, I have more important things to do." He turned and began walking back towards the elevator, feeling like a total idiot for coming here in the first place.

"Hey, wait a minute, Tubby!" Monty called. "Don't you want your five-hundred bucks?"

"You're not fooling me, Monty!" shouted Hamton, his fists curled. "You're not going to pay me!"

"What?" Monty exclaimed in offence. "What do you think I am, a swindler?"

"Yes!" Hamton stabbed the elevator button and the doors opened. Hamton jumped backwards, startled. Monty and Grovely had somehow appeared in the elevator while Hamton's back was turned.

Monty, looking quite crabby, reached into his pocket. "You want proof? Here!" He pulled out five crisp one-hundred dollar bills. "Listen here, swine. I may be cruel and like to make people feel crummy, but I ain't no cheat when it comes to cash! I told you I'll pay you five-hundred dollars if you do these things for me and I meant it! But I won't give you a cent unless you do _everything_! So, we either keep going or I have Grovely show you the way out. Take your pick."

Hamton's irritation did not waver as he looked from the money to the elevator. Any person who knew Montana Max well would know the logical choice without needing to think. If Hamton thought the first room was bad, the other nine were all bound to be individually wrapped nightmares, all holding one worse terror after the next. And Monty would be watching it all, eating it up like pudding.

But then Hamton thought about Fifi and the gift he wanted to give her. That five-hundred dollars would be a gigantic help and would bring him even closer to reaching his goal. And all Hamton had to do was survive a few rooms of humiliation and potential pain (where the latter was bound to increase). What was a few minutes of mortification when it meant the chance of impressing the girl he couldn't stop thinking about? If Buster and Babs could survive Monty's plans and tricks, why couldn't Hamton?

But this thought also brought an uncomfortable lurch. Hamton had a date with Fifi this afternoon at 3:00. What kind of condition would he be in once all of this was over? Would he still have the strength to stand on his own two legs? Would this attempt to make a hefty pay only ruin his time with Fifi?

The very idea of this was enough to make Hamton feel horribly sick.

"Well?" snapped Monty, shaking the money in his hand. "What's your answer, Bacon Fat? Do you want it or not?"

Hamton swallowed his pride, then said, "...Yes."

His stomach twisted at the grin which spread over Monty's face. "That's the spirit." He stuffed the money back in his pocket and he and Grovely walked back down the hall to the next door. Hamton, thinking of nobody but Fifi and his hopes of what he prayed would come on Christmas Eve, followed after.

"Um, excuse me, Grovely, sir?" asked Hamton.

"Yes?" said the butler, his voice drawling.

"Do you have the time, by any chance?"

Grovely pulled out a bronze pocket watch and popped it open. "Yes, my good sir. It is fifteen minutes after nine."

Hamton gave a small smile. At least he had plenty of time. . . .

* * *

The second door had a painting of a feather duster next to it. The duster's handle was broken.

"Go and dust my thousand-dollar bottles of Antarctic bottled water," said Monty. "Grovely?"

The butler pulled a dusting rag from out of his pocket. Hamton took it; It wasn't as nice as the ones he used in _his_ cleaning.

Hamton stepped into an almost totally empty room, expecting at any minute for something bad to happen while moving towards a round table with ten bottles of sparkling crisp water, all alight by a hanging overhead lamp.

When he got to the table, Hamton frowned in confusion. Monty had told him to dust the bottles, but neither one of the ten had so much as a speck of dirt. The glass looked as clean as the water it held.

"Monty, what —" Hamton turned and saw Monty smiling very evilly. He reached over to a button on the wall that Hamton didn't notice when he entered. There came a loud BUZZ and something fell atop Hamton, something that stung his nostrils and covered his skin like a scratchy wool sweater.

Hamton raised his arms and looked all around. He, the table, and the beautiful bottles had just been showered in five layers of dust.

Fighting the urge to cringe, Hamton frowned in determination and got to work. Monty had messed up on this one; cleaning was a specialty of Hamton's. In ten minutes flat, the bottles were sparkling clean again, along with the table. It would've taken less time if not for the fact that the rag kept getting grubby with dust every time Hamton wiped a surface. His overalls and winter coat were tinged with gray by the time he was done.

* * *

The third door was where things got difficult. It had a painting of a metal spring.

"Stay in this room for one whole minute," said Monty.

Grovely handed Hamton a bicycle helmet. Hamton took it fretfully and strapped it on. The moment he stepped inside, Hamton felt his feet sink into the floor.

"What the —!" Hamton eyes widened. He had stepped onto a trampoline, then flung forward into a massive room the size of a football field where a thousand other trampolines were placed along the floor, walls, and ceiling.

BOING! "OW!" BOING! "OW!" BOING! "OW!"

Hamton was flying around like a rubber ball, hitting a trampoline and zipping to another. It was like being slapped by very large, thick rubber bands, and each of them hurt — a lot. On and on it went, Hamton zipping up, down, left, right, and every other direction so that his vision was blurred. The bike helmet proved very ineffective. The blows to his skull weren't nearly as blunt as everywhere else (and I do mean everywhere else), and every time he got knocked in the cranium, he felt himself become more and more dizzy.

Once the minute was up, Hamton was thrown from the room and crashed into the wall outside. Monty didn't laugh as much as he did in the last two rooms, but Hamton distinctively heard a note of cruelty in his chuckling nonetheless.

* * *

The fourth room had a painting of a microphone.

"Go in and sing 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'," said Monty.

Grovely handed Hamton a microphone (a cabled one because Monty was too cheap to use a wireless one).

"Oh. Okay," said Hamton eagerly. Shy as he was, Hamton liked to sing. Karaoke at the Mall with his friends had been a joy, and who didn't like a little Holiday music (you know, besides those who don't like it)?

Hamton stepped in to what looked like a miniature auditorium, with a stage, a couple chairs and a few spotlights. There was nobody else there.

The cheery music started up and Hamton, feeling quite jolly, opened his mouth.

"FATTY!"

Hamton froze. The voice had come out of nowhere and was very harsh.

He tried again, getting a few notes out before . . .

"OFF THE STAGE, YOU WORTHLESS PILE OF GARBAGE!"

"GO SHOVE YOURSELF IN THE MUCK!"

"YOU MAKE DEAF CHILDREN CRY!"

"YOU MAKE A BETTER FOOTBALL THAN A SINGER!"

Hamton stopped singing again, and the voices stopped too. Though there was nobody there, Hamton felt his cheeks going red as though he were right in the center of a heckling.

Again, Hamton tried to sing, and this time didn't stop as the horrible voices came at him like snarling dogs.

"FATTY!"

"UGLY!"

"CHILD OF DIRT!"

"FILTY PIG!"

Hamton sung louder in hopes of drowning out the jeers, but they seemed to grow in volume every time he did. Finally, when the song ended, he was hit (metaphorically) with a tidal wave of boos.

Though Hamton knew none of it was real, his feelings felt as battered as his body. Those voices did something those trampolines couldn't, and so, wiping his face, Hamton turned and walked out with his head bowed. Monty smirked at his look, but Hamton could see no such face on Grovely. Though the butler kept his back straight and his gaze steady, Hamton thought he saw sympathy in the man's calm expression.

* * *

The next room had a painting of a grizzly bear with snarling teeth.

"Go in and open the curtains," said Monty.

This time, Grovely handed Hamton a tiny envelope.

"Open it after you open the curtains," said Monty, his eyes gleaming like ice.

Hamton swallowed and entered. The room was totally empty and also very dark — so dark that he couldn't see anything except for a set of green curtains at the other end. Wanting to get it over with fast, Hamton ran inside, crossed the room and yanked open the curtains. Sunlight flooded into the bare room and Hamton took the chance to glance outside. He was very high up and could see most of Acme Acres from here, including the Acme City Dump and its pink Cadillac. . . .

Hamton turned around and opened the envelope. It contained nothing but a small slip of paper no bigger than a business card. It held only two words:

LOOK UP

Slowly, his throat growing tighter as he did, Hamton glanced up at the ceiling. His heart may have leapt into his throat. Hanging from the ceiling, shining in the glaring sunlight, were hundreds of razor sharp bear traps.

Hamton did a wild-take like someone being struck by lightning and, with a gasp, dodged to the side. An instant later, a bear trap fell right where he had been standing, its blade-like teeth sunk into the floor. Overhead, chains began to jangle as more traps fell, and Hamton screamed as he rushed for the door. He had to swerve, freeze, spin, and even jump as some of the traps landed upright and tried to tear at his feet by snapping their terrible jaws. It was as though they were alive and following his every move.

With extraordinary luck, Hamton flung himself into the hall and slammed the door shut, breathing frantically, his heart beating so harshly he thought he would die.

"Nice moves, Pig," said Monty grumpily, his arms crossed. "You even managed to keep your tail."

Reaching in back, Hamton let out a great exhale to find that Monty was right. He still had his tail. Still, those bear traps did their job in scaring him; his heart was still hammering as he moved on to the next room.

* * *

The sixth door was neighbored with a painting of a barbeque grill.

"Go and fill that glass of water," said Monty. He was starting to look less happy now.

Grovely handed Hamton a clear glass pitcher full of iced water. The butler looked quite sad and guilty.

Hamton opened the door and his face was hit by a warm wave of air. It reminded him of summer. He stepped inside a very long, empty room with a single clear glass cup waiting at the other end. Hamton walked forward, and as he did, he felt a bead of sweat flow down his cheek. Hamton took a short breath and found that his throat was dry. The jug of water was already damp with condensation, soaking his hands. It no longer felt cold. Hamton picked up the pace; it was getting warmer by the second, so much that the stuffy air made it hard to breathe.

He reached the glass and poured the pitcher over, flooding the glass to the brim.

He turned and rushed back for the door, which was a longer ways away then he expected.

Hamton bit down on his bottom lip and looked down. The floor, he noticed just now, was made of metal . . . and it was getting hotter. Hamton ran, his feet screaming each time he set them down on the broiling floor. The room had turned into an oven, and the air was now so stifling that Hamton couldn't take in any oxygen.

He reached the hall and fell to the ground, breathing in the precious cool air. He rubbed his feet which were scorched red, gasping at each tender touch.

"Sir?" Grovely said to Hamton. He pointed down at the pitcher in his hands. There was still a little water left.

Hamton drank a little of the precious liquid and poured the rest over his hurting feet. Though the water was lukewarm, it felt as relieving as a breath of cold winter air.

"Ya give up?" Monty sneered. "You're free to leave any time you want."

Hamton gripped the empty pitcher tightly. An anger hotter than the room he had just left seemed to burn inside him. This was Monty's intent, he now knew. The rooms were nothing more than tools, stages for Monty's amusement. The real job he had set up was to see how much abuse Hamton would take before he finally broke.

Hamton set the pitcher down, his thoughts on Fifi. If that was what Monty was trying to do, then he was going to be very sorry to see that five-hundred dollars gone. Hamton had come this far and he wasn't going to let anything stop him now — not dirt, not humiliation, not traps, not heat or whatever else Monty could dish out. He will push on, he will make it, he _will_ get Fifi her gift!

Wincing, Hamton stood up from the floor, his feet still hurting slightly as he pressed them into the carpet.

"I'll keep going," he said confidently. "I'm not stopping!"

Monty's cruel smile fell.

They turned and headed down the hall. As they went, Grovely quickly showed Hamton his pocket watch. It was 11:00.

The morning wasn't over yet, and neither was Hamton.

Determinedly, he walked on and stopped at the next door.

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	23. Monty's Mansion of Misery PART II

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Thank you very much.**

* * *

 **Chapter 23**

 _Monty's Mansion of Misery_

 _PART II_

 _~Saturday, Dec. 13th~_

Hamton walked in through the next door, past a painting of a row of ducks, holding a ticket that Grovely handed him. He deposited it in a nearby slot and stepped into what looked like a cart to an amusement park ride. It was shaped like a duck with a few carts in front of it, matching in design. They were all nicked in several places and set into a room that, amazingly, had no floor. It resembled a deep, dark pit that seemed to go down for miles, but all around the space were roller coaster tracks, winding and dropping as they circled around the huge room.

Unsure of how to feel about this, Hamton gripped the pull bar as the ducks started to move down the track.

Hamton searched around the track-strewn room for some sign of danger, but as of yet there was nothing that stood out. Worse-case scenario, the cart would crash or fall from the track as it did a loop. The thought made Hamton shrink in his seat.

But none of these things happened. No. Instead, something much worse happened. As the cart neared a corner, a number of clicks sounded around the room. Hamton straightened up and saw that square panels had opened up everywhere along the walls like hatches to a battleship. And from out of these panels came several long metal pipes, all pointing in Hamton's direction. . . .

The ride came to a screeching halt, and realization hit Hamton like a bolt of lightning.

He, like the carts, was a sitting duck.

The long metal pipes were all hollowed out at the ends and, leaning over the cart's edge, he now saw that the large ducks all had a unique pattern to their dents. They were all small and circular and pushed in slightly, almost like something had tried to puncture the metal. They looked like they were made by —

"AHHHHH!" Hamton screamed and leapt forward onto the duck in front. Fight-or-flight had kicked in just in time, because an instant later there came a loud BANG, and a bullet hole appeared right where he had been sitting.

Hamton leapt onto the next duck and dodged another bullet that ricocheted off the duck's head. He jumped off the front-most cart and landed onto the tracks. Hamton gave a painful gasp as the metal made contact with his blistered feet. But there was no time to cringe, he had to move!

Hamton was running faster than he ever had in his life, even faster than he had back in the room with the bear traps. The fact that he also had to balance himself on the narrow metal tracks only made it more terrifying, though the alternative was to jump into a black pit where nothing showed at the bottom.

He climbed the mounting tracks like a ladder and sprinted down again, fast as a slide. Over and under the loops, leaving a trail of dust because he was moving so fast.

He reached the next corner and turned sharply as a hail of bullets pounded the wall, leaving behind a near-perfect outline of Hamton's head and frame. But he didn't stop to look, he couldn't. He pumped his arms up and down with all his might, panting and flinching with each painful step he took. His ears were ringing at the echoing gunshots, and even though each one missed, Hamton's throbbing heart and head made it feel as though they were hitting their target but bouncing off like rubber.

Hamton turned the last corner and was now facing the door, but it was far away and he had the uneasy feeling that every one of those guns were still loaded with more than enough lead to turn him into Swiss cheese.

He ran up a loop; the gunfire was swifter now. Hamton's lungs were hurting, he was growing short of breath. But no! He had to keep going! The door was right there! He zoomed up a very steep hill of tracks — so tall it nearly touched the ceiling — and then he ran down.

The door was only a few steps away. He was going to make it! But then, as Hamton neared the corner, another hidden panel opened and out of the wall came . . . a cannon.

Time seemed to freeze. The gunfire stopped. Hamton's breathing fell short.

BOOM!

The cannon ball exploded from the maw and Hamton couldn't jump over it. Thinking purely out of desperation, he leapt right off the track and towards the door. The cannon ball missed, sending bits of wood and scrap metal flying like confetti, but the black pit lay beneath Hamton now, who was, momentarily, suspended in midair. His arms flailed for a moment, but with luck, he felt his hands slam hard onto the remaining metal tracks. He was dangling. He yelled with fear and pain; his hands were screaming for release from the force of his grip.

Hamton hung like a leaf, his heavy weight threatening to pull him down. But he mustn't. The guns could start firing again at any moment. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to think of what to do.

From within, Fifi appeared inside his mind. . . . Her beautiful self, her adorable laugh, her warm, furry arms wrapped around him in a hug.

 _You can do it, mon amor. I believe in you._

Something seemed to awake inside Hamton, something powerful and unexplainable, something that fed strength into his arms and legs, into his whole body. He thought of Fifi, of his friends, of his resolve to see this insanity through. Buster and Babs could easily get out of this mess, smiling and laughing. Shirley would remain calm even when faced with all this strain, her aura centered and mind sharp. Plucky . . . Plucky would probably end up taking a lot of punches, but he'd _never_ let them beat him down; he's too tough a duck to give up. Even Furrball, for how unlucky he was, would land on his feet like a true alley cat and keep on going.

 _And so will I,_ Hamton thought forcefully.

Monty can go ahead and laugh, he can hurl the whole weight of his mansion atop his victim, but Hamton wasn't going to stop here because he remembered who he was doing this for . . . and she was worth _all_ of this and more! Bullets and guns be darned!

Gritting his teeth, Hamton gripped the rails hard and pulled, straining his face. His chin rose above the metal. He clawed for the track and pulled again. His waist was pressed against the rail, then his knees, and then, with a final yell, Hamton leapt and landed face forward onto the red carpet in the hallway. He had made it.

The shoes of Grovely walked into view and Hamton felt himself being pulled by the hand and up onto his feet again.

"Up and at 'em, good sir," said Grovely politely.

Relief broke over Hamton. He was safe. It was a miracle. He had survived without a single bullet wound.

Monty was gritting his teeth as his eyes burned with fury.

"Next room!" he shouted, turning and stomping so hard that the hallway shook.

* * *

"Go and feed the fish!" Monty yelled, shaking with rage.

Grovely, who looked even graver than he had since he arrived, handed Hamton a can of Acme Fish Flakes.

"I am truly sorry, sir," he said.

Hamton, though confused, acknowledged the sympathy with a light nod. He then walked through a door with a painting of a goldfish in a bowl.

It was the strangest and largest room yet. It looked like it was positioned above a huge aquarium. The only bit of floor to walk on was a thin board that stretched to the other side. Swallowing his fear, Hamton started forward, the can of fish flakes in hand.

The water was completely still except for the small ripples which appeared with every step Hamton took. A minute later, he reached the other side, but there was no fishbowl or tank, nor any fish to be seen. Instead, there was only a weathered, wooden sign on the wall which read, "Feed Fish Here."

Hamton looked down. There was a small gap between the wall and the plank-like floor.

SPLASH!

Hamton shot around so fast he almost fell in. Maintaining his balance, he watched as a large circular ripple soared across the surface of the water. He also thought he heard a small, familiar cackle coming from the direction of the open door. . . .

Wiping away a bead of sweat, Hamton tried to ignore the warning in his throat, the alarm that was his Voice of Reason telling him to get out of there fast. Carefully, he knelt down on the narrow floor and popped the cap off the fish flakes. He held the can out over the gap at the end and shook it. A few colorful flakes fell out and laid atop the water's surface. They smelled like bacon.

Hamton watched them float in the cold silence. The water was still shifting slightly.

Then, out from the water's depth, he saw a dark shape become clearer.

A small fish popped its head out from the water and began to gobble the flakes.

"Wow!" said Hamton, impressed by the fish's voracity. "You must be hungry. Here, help yourself," and he shook out more flakes. The red-bellied fish ate them eagerly.

"You must be lonely," said Hamton. "Having all this space and no other —" As he said it, another fish appeared and started to munch, and then even more showed up. They were flopping eagerly for more food, and Hamton kept shaking and shaking the can of flakes, watching them fall and be devoured. These were, indeed, very hungry little fish.

When the can was empty, Hamton stood up to leave. "Well, I guess that's all of it. I hope you all enjoyed . . . your meal. . . . Uh . . . why are you all looking at me like that?"

The fish had all stopped swarming and were now staring directly at Hamton. They were so still it was unnatural, and it was at this moment, when the fish stopped flopping and eating, did Hamton get his first good look at them. These small fish did not resemble any he ever saw when he went swimming down at Plucky's pond, nor any he had ever eaten. These fish had very mean looking eyes, almost like Monty's. They also had very funny looking mouths. . . .

And then, without warning, one of the fish jumped out and latched its jaws onto Hamton's arm.

"OW!" he shouted. The bite was very painful. Hamton jerked his arm forward, forcing the fish off and back into the water. Hamton clenched his arm and could make out little red teeth marks.

Hamton's heart seemed to stop for the millionth time that day.

These fish . . . these little fish were very hungry . . . and they had sharp teeth. . . . They were piranha. . . .

Hamton leapt back in the nick of time as the carnivorous fish jumped and made another attempt to sink their teeth into his flesh. They flopped with hunger towards him and he scrambled to get up. Another piranha jumped from the water, but Hamton managed to slap it away and began to run. More and more of the fish appeared. The water was churning so badly it might have been caused by a billowing storm. It sprayed over the narrow plank and Hamton felt water splash beneath his feet. It brought relief to his blisters, but this aid was overshadowed by the threat of being eaten alive. Why would Monty have these fish in his house? Did he have them put here just to watch Hamton struggle and be tortured?

The piranha were shooting through the air so fast Hamton could feel them at his back. He never dreamed, in his whole life of being a big eater, that he might one day become a meal himself.

He was almost at the door, but to his horror a group of piranha had leapt onto the plank-like floor, blocking Hamton's way, their sharp teeth snapping. Hamton didn't stop moving but gritted his teeth in nervous desperation. He knew that if he stopped, a hundred hungry fish would seize their chance and drag him to his doom. The only way out was through.

Come on, he thought. I've come this far. No stupid fish is going to keep _me_ from Fifi! No chance!

Reaching again into his inner strength, he bent his legs and, just before the first flopping fish could bite, Hamton jumped, flew through the air, and landed on the other side. He gasped and felt a stabbing pain in his rear, but he refused to stop and look, running pell-mell through the door.

He slammed into the wall, reached behind his back, and pulled at the one piranha who had manage to hang on.

"OW!" he yelled as the fish was forced off. It thrashed by its tail and tried frantically to bite at Hamton's fingers. He threw it back into the room. There was a splash and Grovely slammed the door shut, silencing the savage shoal.

"Master Monty," the butler said, "would you like me to re-import these red-bellied piranha? Master Monty?"

Monty didn't answer. He was shaking violently, glaring at Hamton as though he had just committed a horrible crime.

Without a word, he turned and stomped to the next door.

* * *

"You'll know what to do when you see it!" said Monty, gritting his teeth so hard that a few cracked.

Hamton glanced the painting of a swimming pool, and for a moment, feared he would have to face another horrifying water monster. The bite mark that now rested on his rear was aching like a bad cartoon episode.

Inside this room, Hamton saw nothing but a single hanging lamp, shining down on a diving board.

Hamton stopped. He stared at the thing in front of him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He moved closer, onto the diving board, and stopped to look over the end. Down, down, down, Hamton thought he saw a floor and something, hopefully springs, waiting at the bottom.

No explanation was needed for Hamton. He knew what he must do and was hating himself for actually thinking of doing it. He had no idea what was really at the bottom of this mountainous high dive and if he was wrong. . . . Was this the moment to throw in the towel? Hadn't he suffered enough? He had been scared witless, fouled with dust, jeered and heckled, smacked around, chased by bear traps, was almost roasted alive, was used for target practice, and had almost been devoured by man-eating fish! And now . . . now he was just throwing himself in the way of more pain and humiliation. His overalls were filthy, his feet were sore from burns, and now he had a bite that would soon be infected if he didn't get something on it within an hour.

Hamton's throat closed up at the thought of an hour. How long had he been here since Grovely last told him the time?

His heart began to beat so hard it was painful. The fear of what lay at the bottom of this room was nothing compared to being late for his and Fifi's date.

 _Calm down, calm down_ , he told himself. _It can't be 3:00 yet; it's only taken you about five to ten minutes for the last few rooms!_

 _You've come this far! You're so close! That five-hundred bucks is almost yours, and with it, Fifi's gift will be that much closer into your hands!_

"Hey, Pig!" shouted Monty, he was looking smug again. "You heading in or chickening out?"

He waved the five one-hundreds tauntingly in the doorway.

Hamton clenched his fists and frowned angerly.

He turned towards the diving board and slowly moved onward. His feet didn't feel blistered as he pressed hard onto the wooden plank; it was as though the pain were being drowned out.

Hamton paused, looking over the edge. One more step would do it.

If he was wrong . . . if there was nothing down there . . . .

 _There is_ , he told himself. _There must_. . . .

Hamton lifted his foot in the air and his brain wasn't shouting any more protests. Its mind was made up.

Hamton leaned, and he went.

Out in the hall, Monty laughed evilly and pulled a remote control from out of his pocket. He pressed the one button in the center.

"Ha!" he laughed. "When Fatty hits those springs, he'll sadly find them a little too flat to push back. I'll be having pork pancakes for lunch!"

From behind the laughing rich boy, Grovely was watching with an impassive face. His hands reached slowly behind his back, and out from his pants pocket he pulled another remote, identical to Monty's.

Gravity was pushing Hamton harder and harder, closer to the ground, becoming clearer all the time. He squinted his eyes, trying to see what he prayed were springs.

They were! They were! Or were they just metal circles, growing nearer all the time?

Hamton struck them and felt as though he had been slapped. But they cushioned his fall nevertheless.

He catapulted back up and landed, not gently, but not too painfully on his side, back in the doorway. The bite wound on his rear made him wince, but Hamton was too happy to care. He was almost there. He was through the ninth room. There was only one left.

"WHAT?" thundered Monty, causing Hamton to jump to his feet in shock. He saw that he was holding a remote control. "How come you're not road kill? Those springs were supposed to fall flat! And _you_ were supposed to fall flat! You're supposed to be down fifty stories in a puddle of bacon fat!"

Hamton, his face sprayed with spit, didn't open his mouth to answer. He felt satisfaction that he had managed to annoy the boy who often made his and his friends' lives so unnecessarily difficult.

Monty's face burned red; he was shaking in such a savage frenzy that he looked like he was about turn rabid. He took the remote control in his hand and tore it in half. Wires snapped and computer chips broke apart, falling to the clean red carpet. Monty heaved and slammed the remains of the controller to the floor and started to stomp in place, swearing furious and inaudible curses that would've made Yosemite Sam either very proud or very jealous.

Hamton and Grovely stood there listening to Monty's rant, and Hamton couldn't help but notice Grovely struggle to contain a smile.

Eventually, after about two whole minutes, Monty was reduced to heavy breathing, though his face still resembled a boiling red that was worthy of a pressure cooker. Without a word, he turned and stomped forward. Hamton and Grovely followed, stepping over the broken bits of floor where Monty had pounded in anger.

* * *

The final door in the hallway was wrapped with caution tape. The wood was splintered and scratched as though it had experienced nothing but damage every time its knob was turned. Strangely, though, this sight didn't make Hamton feel as nervous as he thought it would. Being shot at, burned, and eaten alive seemed to have made the horrible atmosphere of these tasks somewhat manageable, though no less painful.

Hamton looked to the side to see what the painting foreshadowed for him, but saw that the canvas was blackened and pealing, as though recently burned.

Monty grasped the doorknob and threw the door open with a yell. It slammed into the opposite side of the wall so hard it cracked through into the hall's.

Monty pointed a shaking finger into the dark room, his teeth straining and grinding as he forced his anger down so he could speak.

"Go..." he growled. "Go inside and stand there for eleven seconds," he finished, venom in every syllable.

Hamton turned. The room was totally dark except for the door frame's outline lying on the floor. It stretched a considerable distance in but didn't fall upon anything in particular.

Taking a deep breath, Hamton stepped inside, not at all afraid.

He had come this far and was now at the end. It was time to finish the job.

Hamton stopped when he reached the edge of the square-shaped light. He turned back to the doorway.

"Okay," he said. "Now what?"

He waited for a few seconds, but still nothing happened. The room remained pitch black except for the patch of light, forming a kind of diving board with Hamton at the end.

Monty's face was its normal color again, and so was his wicked grin.

"Eleven seconds, starting . . . NOW!"

Above the door, a large red number 10 appeared. From within the dark, a horn gave off a loud blare.

A light came on and revealed air vents in the ceiling.

9.

Another light shot on, revealing a huge pile of barrels, several leaking black colored powder. . . .

8.

More lights. A number of crates.

7.

More crates. One was open and a number of red sticks were laying sprawled on the floor.

6.

Hamton frowned, reading the words on the wooden boxes. "Trinitrotoluene."

5.

The whole room was lit now. Hamton's heart might've stopped for good this time. All around him, the room was packed with explosives: a box of bombs, ACME Ozone-Destroy-O Fireworks, foot-long sticks of dynamite, a mound of grenades without pins, a rack of military grade torpedoes, and lastly the timebomb above the door, counting down. And to Hamton's horror, he remembered it started at 10, and Monty told him he would have to stay here for a second longer.

4.

"Remember, Pig," said Monty in a sing-song voice, waving the five-hundred dollars in the safety of the hall.

3.

Hamton could've punched Monty. For the first time in his life, he actually wanted to punch someone.

2.

Hamton's brain was going haywire. Reason and stupidity were colliding as though they were at war. Hamton seemed to have lost feeling in his lungs.

1.

Well . . . he was an immortal cartoon character, at least. He wouldn't die from this, he knew that.

0.

But, of course, it would still hurt.

Outside the mansion, Acme Acres shook as an explosion ripped through the air. Some people fell over. A few buildings leapt from their foundations and fell back into place. Abstract art at the Acme Art Museum straightened out and realistic art fell apart like jigsaw puzzles. Thirty-five million miles away, Marvin the Martian enviously wondered where the Earth-Shattering KaBoom had come from.

Back in Monty's Mansion, Monty was coughing and laughing at the same time, waving away the lingering black smoke. Thank goodness for the room's ventilation.

"Well *cough* Grovely," said Monty. "I think *cough* we finally got him! Like I was going *cough* to let that filthy mud swimmer take *cough* a dollar of _my_ money."

"Uh, sir?" said Grovely, his mouth covered with a handkerchief.

"What?" Monty snapped.

Grovely pointed into the room. Monty followed it and his smile vanished.

The smoke was clearing, and among the scraps of burnt metal and smoldering wood, stood Hamton — but just barely. He was totally black with soot. The bottoms of his overalls were torn at his feet. He was wobbling and his eyes were rolling in his sockets as birds, stars, and scratchy lines spun around his head in comedic fashion.

"Whooooooou..." he said dazedly, tripping to the door. "What a Fourth of July!"

He crossed the threshold and fell face first onto the carpet, right at Monty's feet.

"W-What?" Monty spluttered. "But-I-you-how could —?"

"Congratulations, my good man," said Grovely, and without hesitation, he grabbed the five one-hundred dollar bills right out of Monty's hand and folded them into Hamton's.

"Thanks. . ." Hamton said wearily into the carpet.

Before he could blink, his vision had already started to blur. Only now did he realize how exhausted he was.

He hardly felt the floor shake as Monty stomped next to him.

"Yeah, congratulations!" he spat. "And now that we have nothing more to do, allow me to show you the way out! Don't get up. _I'll do it for you_!"

He roughly hoisted Hamton up by the back strap of his overalls, which were blackened and burned. Hamton barely noticed. His mind was becoming blurry.

Monty dragged Hamton over to the fifty-story window at the hallway's end.

"Take your crummy pay!" he shouted. "And don't let the sidewalk hit you too hard!"

Hamton felt a sharp kick to his rear, a window opening, and then he was flying through a cold breeze. The mansion fell briefly, then rose again, moving farther away. He fell and fell before landing on a cold snowbank outside a set of golden gates, his fist still clenching the money he earned.

The crunchy snow beneath his back was bliss against his hot, ash-covered skin. Hamton sighed happily, thinking and feeling nothing but the wonderful cold.

His head fell back, he heard a cat shriek, and the blue sky above disappeared from view as Hamton's exhaustion finally caught up with him.

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	24. Helping Hands

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995.**

* * *

 **Chapter 24**

 _Helping Hands_

 _~Saturday, Dec. 13th~_

"It was lucky you chose to go and check, Furrball. . . ."

"Man, Hamton's brain must've stopped working or something. If you ask me, all these thoughts of Fifi are making it shut off."

WHACK!

"Ow. Hey!"

"You know, Plucky, it's lucky Hamton's sleeping right now or else _he_ might've smacked you, and I'm not saying that to be funny."

"Oh, come on, Buster! I'm just worried. I mean, even _I_ wouldn't have done that!"

" _Really_?"

"Well . . . not for just five-hundred bucks."

Hamton winced without opening his eyes. He was still lying on his back, he could feel that, but it definitely wasn't on cold snow. The surface was softer and the air around him was warm; there was no chilly breeze at all. What was more, Hamton's skin felt slightly wet and parts of him were covered by something. . . .

He groaned and shifted. He could smell soot and dust, and he heard the nearby voices stop talking abruptly.

"Guys, shh!" said a familiar friendly voice. "He's waking up!"

With another groan, Hamton opened a stubborn eyelid. Everything was blurred as though he were looking through the lens of a badly focused camera. All he could make out were a strange mix of colors: a dark, pale green; a light, sky blue, and a darker, shaded blue — each of them all mixed with some white. A moment later, he could see a bill, two long ears, and some whiskers and a tattered ear.

Hamton pressed a hand to his tired face; it too was wet. He rubbed his eyes, ignoring the fact that his muscles were sore and his feet seemed to be wearing tight socks.

He blinked twice, and at once, he was awake.

"Pl...Plucky?" Hamton said, surprised. "Buster? Furrball?"

He was back home in his living room, laying on the couch with his friends standing in front of him.

"Welcome back to the living, Hamton," quipped Buster, his voice half amused, half annoyed. "You had us worried for a while."

"Not me, though," said Plucky, smugly. "I knew you'd be just fine. I knew my best pal wasn't going to give in. He might be pudgy, but he's made of tough stuff."

Hamton was only half listening as he tried to clear his head of its drowsy state and recall what had happened. He had been thrown from Monty's mansion, he remembered. He had landed in snow. . . .

As though reading his mind, Buster said, "Furrball saw you hit the snowbank outside Monty's place, Hamton. He got worried after you didn't come home after two hours and went to go find you."

Hamton looked to Furrball, who gave him a weak smile. He was holding a blackened washcloth in his paws.

Buster continued, "He managed to carry you back. Me and Plucky were walking to your place when we saw Furrball limping down the sidewalk with you hanging with your arm over his shoulders. We helped get you back inside and patched you up."

"Oh . . .thanks," said Hamton. He gave a weak smile which didn't last as Buster's face become unusually solemn.

"From the smell of gunpowder and ash on you, Hamton," he said, "you must've taken on quite the job."

"Oh . . . uh, yeah . . ." Hamton muttered sheepishly, and his mind flooded with images from the ten trials of torture he had endured at Monty's mansion.

"At least your money didn't get burnt," said Plucky on a positive note, and he gazed down lovingly at five dirty one-hundreds in his green, feathered hand. Furrball snatched them away, giving Plucky an annoyed frown as he placed them down next to Hamton's pillow.

"So?" said Buster sharply, crossing his arms. "Care to elaborate, Hamton?"

"Elaborate what?" he asked, smiling in a weak attempt.

Buster's face calmed rather stiffly. "Oh, I don't know. How about the fact that you got a phone call this morning from the meanest kid in Acme Acres, walked out from your house, did who-knows-what for him, and came out with burns, bruises, and a smell that suggests you've been _lit on fire_?"

Hamton flinched. He had never seen Buster look or sound this angry before, at least not with him; even Plucky and Furrball nervously backed away from him.

Hamton leaned against the couch, staring into Buster's glare.

"I-I was just trying to make some money for Fifi's gift," Hamton said uncomfortably. It was very odd; he was feeling like an immature kid caught in wrong doing and being scolded by a parent.

Buster's face slackened. "Hamton," he said wearily. "I can understand what motivated you, but did you consider, even for a minute, that Monty might do something like this to you?"

"Of course, I did," said Hamton, now feeling annoyed. "I knew Monty would try _something_ , but I didn't think —"

"Well, that's a clear fact!" Buster snapped. "Burns on your feet, clothes ripped, _and_ getting bit by something! This is Montana Max, Hamton! You're lucky he didn't use you for target practice!"

Hamton smiled sheepishly. "Uh . . . actually, he . . . he _did_ try that."

"WHAT?" Buster, Plucky and Furrball shouted in alarm.

"But I got through it all fine!" Hamton insisted quickly. "Well . . . alive, at least. . . ."

Hamton then went into detail of the difficult tasks Monty had set up for him, from the Frightening Fig tree all the way to the room rigged with explosives. His friends' expressions were all of shock and astonishment, probably for Hamton getting through all that torture without dying.

Buster pressed a palm to his forehead and seemed too frustrated to form words. Furrball's look was of pity, though Hamton thought there was also a twinge of annoyed "what did you expect?" to his expression.

Plucky, however, had no trouble voicing his mind (a specialty of his).

"Gee whizz, Hamton!" he said, shaking his head. "I agree, five-hundred dollars is a beautiful thing, but even _I_ would think twice before knocking on Monty's door. You know he's got it in for all of us. Well, except for Elmyra maybe, but the rest of us are dirt to him."

Hamton couldn't argue with this logic, even if it was coming from Plucky. He was suddenly feeling more stupid than he had in a long time. He might've prevailed in getting the money, but still. All the pain and aches. . .

And speaking of his pain and aches, Hamton looked down at himself, and, not knowing how it could've taken him so long to notice, saw that all the soot had been cleaned off his skin. He looked again to the dirty rag in Furrball's paw.

Then he glanced down at his bandaged feet.

"We took the liberty of mending your injuries," said Buster, apparently noticing Hamton's curious look. "Me and Furrball aren't as skilled in first-aid as Miss Granny, but Plucky surprised us."

Plucky reached down and lifted a large white case with a red square cross: an Acme Jumbo First-Aid Kit.

"When you've lived through as many stunts as I have," said Plucky, "you need to know how to mend bends and bruises, especially when it comes to falling anvils that crush you flat."

Hamton lightly pressed his bandaged feet onto the carpet, preparing to wince from the pain of his burns, but they didn't hurt. He applied a little more force, but still there came no discomfort; Hamton might've been wearing socks if he didn't know any better.

"Wow," he said, amazed at the speed to which his feet had healed. "How'd you guys do that?"

"Acme Aloe Instant Burn Relief," said Plucky, opening his first-aid kit and pulling out a plastic jar with a white colored cream. "Soothes and heals first and second-degree burns _blazing_ fast."

A rip shot sounded. Nobody laughed.

"Get it? 'Blazing?'" Plucky chuckled nervously.

Again, nobody laughed.

"Humorless boors," grumbled Plucky, stuffing the cream back into his kit.

"Thanks, guys," said Hamton, standing up from the couch with ease. "I owe you all one."

"You can owe us by getting ready for your date," said Buster. "You're lucky Monty didn't give you any permanent—"

"Oh, no!" shouted Hamton. "My date!"

He rushed past Buster, his heart suddenly pounding as though he were back at Monty's mansion. He pressed his hands and face to the living room window. It was still sunny outside, and in the distance Hamton could see the Acme Loo clock tower. Its face was at 1:50.

Hamton breathed an immense sigh of relief. He still had time; he hadn't missed out on what might be the best thing that will ever happen to him.

To think, in just over an hour, he could be walking hand in hand with —

"Hey, Hamton? Hamton?" said Buster, from what seemed like a long distance, before Hamton realized he was actually a foot away, waving his hand in front of his face. "Wake up, lover boy. You've got to get yourself ready. Can't go out with Fifi wearing overalls that smell like charcoal."

Hamton stroked a hand across his overalls' front and saw, to his disgust, a thick patch of black soot on his fingers. "BLEH!" he said in disgust.

"Hup two, hup two, Hamton!" cried Plucky. "Time's a wastin'! You don't want to keep your lady waiting!"

"She isn't my lady!" said Hamton blushing. "Yet. . ."

In under a minute, Hamton made his way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. The water was like heaven — so soothing as it washed away whatever soot Furrball missed. And he smiled at how his bandaged feet stayed completely dry as he the water flowed over him. It seemed Plucky had made sure the medical gauze he bought was water-proof.

Once out and dry, Hamton took his blackened overalls to the kitchen and tossed them away into the garbage. Thankfully, his winter coat wasn't nearly as dirty; a few quick scrubs with an Acme Stain and Scent Roller and it was good to go. He would have to put his winter coat in the wash for tomorrow, but for tonight, Furrball's coat would do just fine.

Hamton returned to his bedroom, his towel wrapped around his waist. With a startled jump, he saw Buster, Plucky, and Furrball waiting for him by his bed.

"Guys!" he said, his cheeks burning as he gripped his towel. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you pick out your look," said Buster. "You never get a second chance at a first impression, Hamton, especially on a first date. And according to the Unofficial Guide to Dating (the one not shown on _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , Buster whispered), a good set of clothes always helps."

"Oh. Well, all right then," said Hamton, keeping a firm grip on the towel around his waist. "What do you guys have in mind?"

From the looks of it, everything. The three boys shifted through Hamton's closet, ignoring the 100,000 pairs of identical overalls, and starting pulling out clothes Hamton had long forgotten were in there, including, to Plucky's amusement, his Decoy costume from the BatDuck cartoons. After a few comparisons, suggestions on what Fifi might like, what will show Hamton as a guy with personality — and wondering whether it was weird that they, a group of four boys, were actually talking about clothes — Hamton decided on a blue long-sleeved button-up shirt with a pair of black pants. Hamton was surprised to see they still fit and were quite comfortable.

"Looking smart, Hamton," said Buster with a mild nod.

"I can't see anything wrong with it," said Plucky. "Although, if it's all right with you two, can we stop talking about clothes? I don't know why but I'm feeling a little freaked out. You know, 90s stereotype." Scratching his head, Plucky looked up in thought, "I wonder how things will be twenty years later. . . ."

Furrball, grinning in approval, shook Hamton's hand.

Hamton looked himself over again in the mirror. Though it felt somewhat foreign having on long sleeves instead of his usual overalls straps, he thought it was a good change for this brief amount of time.

He wondered, though . . . what will Fifi think of him when they saw each other? He bet with all his heart that she would be drop-dead gorgeous (as she always is). Then, his smile fading a little, Hamton wondered if Fifi would care that a beautiful skunk like herself was going out with a hefty pig like him. Hamton knew perfectly well that Fifi had, for many years, yearned for a big, strong "skunk hunk", whom she audibly dreamed about day after day. And this, the image standing before Hamton in the mirror, couldn't farther removed from that charming fantasy.

But . . . surely he was fine, he told himself. Fifi asked him out, didn't she? She had walked right up and asked him. She doesn't care whether he was a pig or a skunk. Right. . . ?

* * *

"Like, no lipstick," said Shirley, pushing Fifi's collection of lipstick back into her cosmetics drawer. "Your lips don't need enhancing, Fifi. Heck, no part of you does. Your hair, your tail, your curves. You're, like, practically perfect!"

"Uh . . . merci," said Fifi uneasily, her hands in her lap. She was sitting in the back seat of her Cadillac, watching as Babs and Shirley went about talking, trying to get Fifi to look her best. Fifi, however, couldn't find the strength to speak. She kept glancing nervously out the car window to stare up at the Acme Loo clock tower. It was now 2:15; the day had passed by faster than she expected, and with each minute gone Fifi felt her heartbeat grow steadily more anxious.

Her whirling thoughts were cut off when Babs let out a shriek of joy.

"Oh! How about this one?" she said, holding up a sparkling red dress. "Hubba hubba," she said, in a deeper feminine voice.

Fifi gave the tight-looking dress one brief, uninterested look, then turned her gaze back down to her folded hands. She honestly had no opinion to give; fashion was farthest on her mind right now.

"Hey, Fifi?" said Babs in her normal voice. "You okay?" She and Shirley both took a seat next to the quiet skunk.

"Oui..." she said softly, not knowing if she was entirely honest.

"Like, feeling a tad edgy?" asked Shirley.

"Oui. _Very_ edgy," Fifi confirmed. "Girls, do you think I am being stupid about zis?"

"Stupid about what?"

"Me asking Hamton out."

"What? No, of course not!" scoffed Babs, taken aback. "How can you say that, Fifi? You're going on a date. That's a wonderful thing!"

"But I never _said_ it was a date," Fifi reminded, her voice strained as she placed her hands on her face. "Le sigh. Do _I_ even think it is a date?"

"Well . . . do you want it to be a date, Fifi?" Babs asked inquiringly.

Fifi straightened back up, though her head was still hanging and staring at the floor of her immobile home. "I want to. But . . . does _Hamton_ see it as a date?"

She sat there, her face going warm, waiting for their response, but they didn't say anything. Fifi turned to look at them. For the briefest moment, she could've sworn Babs and Shirley were both pitying her. Did they both think Hamton wouldn't see this time with Fifi as anything more than two friends simply hanging out? And why did Fifi care so much about that?

Finally, after clearing her throat, Babs said, "If you ask me, Fifi, Hamton probably knows this is more than just two friends hanging out."

Fifi straightened up, eyeing Babs fixedly. Had she just read her mind?

"But," Babs added critically, "you shouldn't let that worry you. Fifi, Hamton is a very sweet boy. You and him are sure to have a fun time, so don't worry about it. After all, a date _is_ basically two people just hanging out, getting to know each other better. It's the first step in every couple's relation—

She stopped dead, her eyes wide.

Fifi's eyes went wide, too. The temperature in her cheeks rose to such a level that she could almost see them glowing red.

"What I meant, Fifi," said Babs quickly, "is that . . . well . . ." and she stopped, apparently running into a dead end of what it was she meant to say.

"Just tell us this, Fifi," said Shirley, and she levitated into midair and floated over beside Babs so that they both faced Fifi. "Now, don't get your shockers too shocked when I say this, but . . . Fifi . . . do you _want_ a relationship with Hamton?"

A few cars drove by down the road outside. Fifi thought she heard a few people walking on the sidewalk and a Salvation Army bell ringing. The silence in her pink Cadillac was so tangible, she felt she might have gone deaf, though the sounds outside betrayed that possibility.

Her fuzzy cheeks burning, Fifi opened her mouth, but her voice seemed to have stopped working. She was feeling stupid. Why was is so difficult for her to answer such a simple question? But then again . . . did she even have an answer to the question?

"I . . . I . . ." she stammered. She stopped and stared at the floor, trying to marshal her thoughts. It felt harder to think about her feelings when there were people staring at her.

A few more silent seconds passed, and finally Fifi managed to scavenge an answer.

"I . . . I do not know what I want," said Fifi, and she found she couldn't meet her friends' eyes. "I cannot explain it, but . . . ." She shut her eyes tight. Then she looked up at her friends. "Do you two remember last week, when Monty said . . . said all zhose things about me?"

The memory of those cold words still felt horribly uncomfortable, and Fifi couldn't help but feel grateful at Babs and Shirley's cold, bitter looks when they both said, "Yes."

"Well, after Hamton walked me home and talked to me . . . I felt something. I did not really understand it at ze time. I just thought it came with ze encouragement he gave. But . . . I have been getting zis feeling more and more, and I am still not certain what it could be. Zat is why I asked Hamton out. I . . . I need to find out what zis is."

And again, Fifi thought she saw that pitying look in Babs and Shirley's eyes.

"You both think I am foolish, non?" she asked, embarrassed.

"No. We don't," said Babs squarely. "We think it's good you're trying to understand your feelings. Fifi, there's nobody who knows what's best for your feelings than you do. If your heart told you to go on this date, then we insist you do so. You might regret it later if you don't."

Fifi smirked. "You sound like Pepe. He said ze same thing to me yesterday."

"Well, he does know quite a bit about love," Babs commented.

"Minus the mondo fact that he is, like, still single after like forty or something years," Shirley added as an afterthought.

"Shirley!"

"What?" asked Shirley, surprised by Babs' yell. "I'm just stating a fact!"

"Girls, girls, it is all right," said Fifi, laughing a little. "Now," she said, straightening up, "let us go over zhose dresses you showed. I want to have anozher look."

Babs and Shirley eagerly shot straight for Fifi's closet and started rummaging. Fifi was relieved that she made the suggestion, both to keep her friends from fighting and because of what she was now determined to see through. She no longer felt apprehensive about her "date". In fact, she beamed at hearing her friends agree that she was making the wise choice by listening to her feelings.

She turned and looked into her heart-shaped mirror atop her makeup vanity. Her recently washed periwinkle hair was in its usual style, her furry cheeks were smooth, and her tail was as large and fluffy as always. And she agreed with Shirley; she didn't need any lipstick, having never been too fond of that particular makeup anyway.

Hopefully, by the time she decided on which dress to wear, Hamton would find her at least somewhat pretty.

Again, Fifi blushed and felt slightly nervous, because even though she was fully determined to go through with her heart's decision, a part of herself couldn't fight away a nagging thought. And it was this unwanted brainwave that caused the following to happen.

Without meaning to, Fifi looked from her reflection and up to the posters stuck on the roof of her car. Each and every one depicted a handsome, slick-haired, buff male skunk (some without any shirts). Wide-eyed, she shot her gaze back down to the floor, feeling petty and shallow.

Her heart pounding and her mouth suddenly dry, Fifi strained to push any thoughts of skunk out of her head. Those picture-perfect hunks would have to remain behind in this Cadillac; today, Fifi's preference was a boy of a different sort: someone kind, someone familiar . . . someone real. . . . In less than an hour, she will be stepping outside her expectations and journey into the realm of chance, and only by the end of this night would she know for sure whether she made the right decision.

The stage was set, the hour was near, and, from Babs' and Shirley's eager suggestion, the wardrobe was presented. Time to face the crowd with a smile and commence the dance.

* * *

It was 2:45 when Hamton, Buster, and Plucky walked out the door.

"It always good to be fashionably early," Buster said to Hamton, leading him down the house's walkway by the shoulder. " _And_ with your snazzy blue shirt and black pants, you'll also be _fashionable_ while being fashionably early."

Looking back to his house's front door, Hamton waved nervously back to Furrball, who smiled confidently and gave him a thumbs-up.

And so off he went, heading for the city of Acme Acres with a heavily hammering heart.

Though he was dressed in his winter coat, though there was no chilly wind and the temperature was pleasantly cool, Hamton felt as though his insides were slowly being frozen over with jagged frost. Every step he took — or rather every step Buster and Plucky guided him through — brought him closer to Fifi, and his heart seemed to beat harder like a metal detector moving ever closer to a precious treasure.

In what seemed like no time at all, the three boys had crossed into the city. Hamton felt as though he hadn't eaten in a week, but he also didn't feel any sort of appetite whatsoever (which, being a pig, was quite a big deal).

"Hamton, chill out," said Plucky, walking at his side. "I can see you sweating bullets already. Fifi won't like it if she sees —"

"I am?!" Hamton shrieked, and he stopped dead and looked himself over, feeling his face, arms, and under his armpits.

"I was joking, Hamton!" said Plucky, holding his hand up in apology. "But I mean it. Chill out."

"Yeah, Hamton, please," said Buster, patting his shoulder. "Stop worrying. You're ready for this. Just go and have a good time with your gal."

Hamton nodded to his two friends and took a deep breath, trying not to feel sick or feel like he was wearing a neck tie five sizes too small (which, thankfully, he wasn't). With a good deal of effort, he began walking again down the damp, snowy sidewalk, Plucky and Buster following him from behind.

When they reached the block that housed the Acme City Dump, Hamton stopped dead on the edge where the sidewalk went off in different directions. The front path led directly to the Dump's opening through the tall wooden fence, where the sunlight was gleaming off a patch of icy snow. The right path led off into the city, where crowds of people were walking from place to place, many carrying shopping bags or stopping to chat to friends in the unnaturally fine winter weather.

"Hamton?" Buster asked. "You okay?"

Hamton swallowed. He honestly had no clue what he was feeling now — excitement or trepidation.

Taking another deep breath, Hamton exhaled and said, "I . . . I think I'll okay. . . ."

"Hamton, pal," said Plucky, and his voice was unusually kind and gentle. "You'll be fine. In a few moments, you're gonna show Fifi what a great guy you are."

"That's right," said Buster with a nod. "And don't forget, Hamton. You once took Fifi to the Prom. Remember how happy you felt then?"

Hamton's cheeks went red. "Of course, I do."

"Well, remember that and make it happen again. This is _your_ date, Hamton. It's up to you to make it good. If you feel nervous, that's okay. You're not weak for feeling so. Just stop and take a few seconds to breathe, then afterwards, tell yourself it's all going to work out. And Hamton?" Buster added, looking serious. "Whatever you do, _do not_ worry about thinking what your date should be like. Nobody can predict the outcome, so panicking over it will just hurt you. Instead, take each moment as it comes and make them the best you can. One step at a time, Hamton."

The pig gave a sincere smile. "Okay. I'll do my best."

Buster gave an affirmative nod. "All right, then. You're ready. I wish both you and Fifi a wonderful evening. Good luck, Hamton."

Buster gave him one final pat on the shoulder. Plucky gave him two. Then, without another word, the rabbit and duck jogged off down the path towards the busy crowd. A few seconds in, they were gone from sight.

Hamton, his breath coming out slow and heavy, took a single step forward, but then stopped in surprise.

Babs and Shirley had just walked out from the Dump's entrance. They turned and took a few steps before seeing Hamton and stopping themselves, looking just as surprised as he felt. Their expressions, though, quickly turned to warm smiles, and they walked forward.

"You look very good, Hamton," whispered Babs. "Good luck."

"And think positive," whispered Shirley, and like their boyfriends, they both passed him by and turned down the same way Buster and Plucky went.

Feeling more encouraged by all his friends' words of comfort, including Furrball's thumbs-up, Hamton smiled and walked up to the entrance.

There it was: Fifi's pink Cadillac. The windows were wet with foggy condensation, except for a sliver on the passenger side door.

Hamton looked behind him. The Acme Loo clock tower read 2:59.

It was time. Hamton had a brief, odd moment that he was heading toward a very difficult job (perhaps even harder than the one he went to this morning).

But no, he told himself. This wasn't a job; this was an opportunity. This was a special time reserved for just him and Fifi, and he was going to enjoy it and do everything to make sure Fifi enjoyed it too. Forget raising money for a gift, forget being afraid; this was by far more important.

Hamton stepped carefully over the patch of ice and snow and entered the City Dump. He heard the clock tower chime 3:00, its bell letting out three resounding rings.

The bell's vibrations fueling him on, he walked down the flat snow path and arrived outside the Cadillac's passenger door. He gave it three knocks.

Hamton breathed freely and easily, folded his hands, and waited.

The door opened two seconds later, a delightful scent of flowery perfume mingling on the cold air.

"Bonjour, Hamton." The words were like soft petals floating on a gentle summer breeze.

Fifi was smiling gently. She was donned in a short-sleeved, light green dress which fell to her knees. As always, her favorite bright red bow rested against her soft periwinkle hair.

"Hi, Fifi," said Hamton, and he was shocked to find how easy it was for him to speak. "You look beautiful."

"Merci," said Fifi fondly. "You look wonderful, as well. Blue and black go well with you."

She turned around to close the car door, unaware that the tip of her fluffy tail brushed against Hamton's nose, tickling it. Hamton fought the urge to explode with joy. It was so soft!

"So, Hamton . . ." said Fifi, feeling it would be best to let him choose first, "where would you like to go?"

Hamton thought, fighting down any nerves and keeping his mind steady.

"How about . . . the mall?" he suggested. "We could check out the stores. . . ."

"Okay," Fifi said, looking quite happy at the idea. "Would it be all right if we stop at Dr. Olfactor's Factory first?"

"Sure," said Hamton. "I really like that place. If only cleaning products came in that many scents."

Hamton paused and repressed a groan. Did he actually just make a comment about cleaning products? Good grief; not even a minute in on his date and already he was making himself look stupid!

But to his surprise, Fifi giggled. "Oh, oui," she agreed. "I told ze store manager myself to consider adding cleaner to zheir shelves. Maybe zey will consider one of zhese days."

Hamton felt relieved. Maybe being himself really was all he had to do. . . .

With that, both Hamton and Fifi started walking, side by side, towards the large gap in the fence. They both gave each other a smile out of the corner of their eyes. . . .

It happened faster than a lightning strike.

The two stepped onto the icy bit of snow that flowed from the Dump's grounds into the sidewalk, and Fifi's foot slipped.

She let out a small shriek and flailed her arms, trying desperately to regain her balance. Hamton caught Fifi's wrist and managed to steady her, but his bandaged foot slid on the ice and he too stumbled. The next thing he knew, he and Fifi were literally standing nose to nose.

Wide-eyed, they pulled away at once, both blushing.

"Sorry!" they both said. "Sorry!"

Hamton's heart was hammering so fast he had to clutch his chest to stop it from hurting. It was the most nerve-racking thing that ever happened in his life. And also the most wonderful. . . .

"Hamton?" said Fifi, her brain feeling light as though she were floating on a cloud.

"Yeah?" said Hamton, completely winded.

"What happened to your feet?"

Perplexed, Hamton looked down. "Oh . . ." He had completely forgotten. His feet had healed so well and so quickly, he hardly remembered that they were wrapped with water-proof gauze.

"Oh, uh, I. . ." Hamton hesitated. It wouldn't be good to have Fifi know of the horrible mess he put himself through this morning at Monty's mansion, and the idea of explaining _why_ he went there in the first place was completely out of the question. "I just had a little trouble this morning. It's no big deal or anything, but I'd rather not talk about it."

Fifi stared at him, puzzled. It couldn't be plainer that Hamton didn't want to pursue this subject, so she said, "All right, Hamton. I am sorry."

"No, no, it's okay," he said. "Sorry if they look off-putting."

"No, no," said Fifi shaking her head. "Your feet have to heal. If they are still tender, maybe we should wait and do zis tomor-"

"NO!" said Hamton, his eyes wide. "No, it's okay, Fifi. I can walk! I walked here from my house, so my feet are fine. I just forgot to remove the bandages. I can _definitely_ walk around the mall."

Fifi looked totally delighted to hear this, then said, "Okay. Shall we be off?"

"Absolutely."

Hamton carefully maneuvered around the patch of ice, and together he and Fifi walked side by side down to the edge of the fence and turned left at the corner. As they headed into the crowds of people, they both thought back to that moment outside the City Dump's entrance — neither sorry that they had almost slipped.

* * *

 **All comments welcome, both postivie and constructive.**


	25. Smells, Sounds, Tastes, and Feelings

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995.**

* * *

 **Chapter 25**

 _Smells, Sounds, Tastes, and Feelings_

 _~Saturday, Dec. 13th~_

As they had expected, the Mall was packed when Hamton and Fifi walked into the Food Court atrium. With it being Saturday, the large shopping center was bound to be at its busiest; this, combined with it being the holidays, made the already spacious halls more cramped than usual.

The Mall's inner appearance had changed drastically from the last time Hamton and Fifi visited. Nearly every available wall space was covered with some form of holiday decor. Hundreds of colored lights were strung around columns and store entrances. Wreathes and ribbons were tied to posts, doors, and along the balconies between the Mall's two floors. Sparkling garland hung from the hallway stands and bell ringers were actively ringing with several tones, collecting for charity. Beautiful fake Christmas trees stood surrounding the Mall's central fountain, Hanukkah menorahs were shown behind window displays, and gingerbread houses stood at every other available space (some with pieces bitten out).

Hamton let out a low whistle, to which Fifi responded, "Oui. Ze Holidays have truly taken hold."

As intimidating as it was, Hamton and Fifi stepped forward and into the tumultuous sea of shoppers.

"Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon me - OW!" Hamton collided with a shopping bag full of fruitcake. He knew it was fruitcake because it smelled so deliciously of cinnamony dough — plus it was denser than a brick.

"Excusez-moi. Pardon. Can I just – Sacré bleu!" Fifi cried out, for her fluffy tail got snagged on a string of garland and was surprised by the sudden tug.

Just as it became suffocating, Hamton and Fifi emerged out of the cluster of legs, both breathing as though they had just finished running an obstacle course. Once they caught their breath, Hamton found, to his and Fifi's great relief, that they had arrived outside Dr. Olfactor's Aroma Factory.

"Shall we go in, Fifi?" Hamton asked with a smile.

"Oui," said Fifi, already pulling the door open. "Let us escape ze holiday horde."

The shop, quite thankfully, was nowhere near as crowded as most of the Mall's other stores. Only a handful of customers were browsing the shelves, their eyes closed, letting their noses lead them over the candles, air fresheners, burning incense, and fresh flowers. Hamton and Fifi took a slow inhale of the wonderful scents which filled the place as though the air were made from them. Sweet caramel, fruity berry, salty sea breeze, spicy cinnamon, coconut tree, and even crackling camp fire. There was even a live Christmas tree, and in place of ornaments, its branches held an array of pine tree air fresheners, giving a hint of holiday spirit.

"I can see why you like this place," said Hamton, grinning at the friendly sight.

"Oui," said Fifi with a heavenly sigh. "It is like an adventure each time you walk through ze doors. Always something new to smell."

For the next half hour, Hamton and Fifi had fun browsing the shelves with the other customers, testing out everything the store had to offer. It was impossible to take a step without breathing in something new.

In the candle section, Fifi took a whiff from a light brown candle in a glass jar.

"Hamton?" she called, jogging over to him down the row of candles, fat and thin, small and enormous, in several shapes and colors. "You _must_ smell zis," she said eagerly, holding up the candle.

Hamton sniffed it.

"MMM!" he said with intense delight, his insides becoming very warm. "Smells like a Christmas feast."

"Oui, zat is what I thought too!" said Fifi. "And what do you have zhere?" she asked, spotting the large purple candle Hamton had in his hand.

"Give it a whiff," said Hamton. "I think you'll like this one."

Fifi leaned forward and inhaled.

"Ooh, la, la!" she exclaimed, as the sweet scent flowed through her like a wave. "Grape spice!" She took another inhale, and let out another, "Le sigh. . . . Hamton, how did you know I love zat aroma?"

"I know how much you love grape juice," said Hamton with a shrug, looking slightly bashful.

Both of them looked down at the candles in their hands.

"Would you like —" they both said at once.

Smirking at the coincidence, Fifi said, "You go first."

"Okay," said Hamton. "Would . . . you like me to buy this for you?"

At these words, a slight pang seemed to strike at Hamton's insides. He knew spending money was really the last thing he should be doing right now. But . . . it was just for this candle, he told himself, and it was only three dollars.

As for Fifi, she seemed a bit surprised by this offer. Her eyes lowered from Hamton to the candle she held.

She then asked, "Would you care if I buy _zis_ one for you?"

As she expected, Hamton's smile dwindled a little. He was just as awkward about accepting a gift from someone simply out of generosity as she was.

"'How about zis, Hamton?" Fifi suggested. "'How about — if you want to, zat is — we _both_ pay for each other's candle. Zat way we can call it a fair trade."

"Uh, okay," said Hamton, smiling. "If you want to."

"Oui," said Fifi gently. "I would very much like zat."

Hamton nodded. "All right then."

With that settled, they proceeded to the checkout at the store's center. They each handed over three dollars and switched each other's bags, Hamton's brown feast candle in his hand and Fifi's purple grape spice candle in hers.

"Thank you for the early gift," said Hamton, as he and Fifi headed for the exit.

"Merci, as well," Fifi replied kindly.

A plastic bag in hand, they both walked out, blushing ever so slightly.

* * *

Hamton and Fifi didn't buy anything else throughout the rest of their stay at the Mall. They spent their time browsing through the stores, barely staying longer than ten minutes and simply glancing around at the products offered. Occasionally, they would stop when they found something interesting and share comments on it. Though it was simple chatting, Hamton and Fifi found it relaxing as well as interesting to hear what the other had to say.

"My papa would simply adore zis store," said Fifi, as she and Hamton browsed a wall full of beautiful framed photographs and paintings. "He is quite fond of ze arts, especially photography."

"Really?" asked Hamton, interested. "My dad loves taking pictures, too. He's the one who always takes the snapshots on his and my mom's business trips. Makes for good memories and helps their jobs as brochure makers."

Fifi giggled. "Sounds fun. Have zey ever done a brochure for Paris?"

Hamton stopped to think. "Hmm . . . I don't think so. They never mentioned going to Paris."

Fifi smiled. "Well, if zey ever go, be sure to let me know. I can point out several scenic places that would look simply fantastic! I, for one, would _love_ to show you if we ever get ze chance."

Hamton blushed. "Y-Yeah. That would be lovely."

Next, they stopped at CD's Records. Holiday music was playing through the speakers and the Christmas tree in the center, like the one back at the Aroma Factory, was decorated with store products: audiotape from tape cassettes were used as garland, colored lights reflected off blank CDs, miniature ornaments shaped like instruments hung from the branches, and where the star usually sat atop the tree was a golden bugle wrapped in red ribbon with bright green holy.

Once they had their fill of the dazzling music tree, Hamton and Fifi noticed, only then, that most of the people inside the store were gathered at a corner where the instruments were kept. Curious, they walked over to the crowd and no sooner had they reached the front, they heard a jazzy piano melody start to play. And the person playing was Mary Melody.

She was dressed in a Christmas sweater and was seated at the store's polished grand piano, located next to a wall full of guitars, keyboards, and shining brass instruments. Hamton thought he knew the song that was playing, and sure enough, he found he was correct as Mary began to sing "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree." She was accompanied by Little Sneezer, the cute adorable mouse, who was playing the saxophone. Behind them, Gogo Dogo was playing the drums (with actual poultry drumsticks).

Mary sung magnificently. She swayed gently back and forth on the bench as though she were trying to dance in place to the jazzy song. Hamton was wide-eyed with amazement at how good Sneezer was on the saxophone. His jazz solo was so spirited, it could've passed for a professional's. Fifi had to hold her hand to her mouth to muffle her laughs as Gogo took quick bites from his drumsticks as he played.

When the song ended, Hamton, Fifi, and the crowd gave a very decent round of applause, an applause which ended when Little Sneezer let out one of his hurricane-forced sneezes, blasting nearly everyone backwards and some even right out the door. Amazingly, Hamton and Fifi had hardly moved, though Hamton did feel a little dizzy and Fifi's tail was a tad frizzier than before.

"Sorry," Sneezer apologized, rubbing his nose, "I'm 'lergic to public applauses."

"That and every last thing on earth," Mary grumbled drearily, her hand pressed to her face.

"Sorry, Mary," said Sneezer, his hands behind his back and glancing at the ground in regret.

At this, Mary stood up from the bench and knelt down beside the little gray mouse. "Ah, Sneezer," she said sweetly. "I'm not mad. I know you can't help your sneezing. Just try to remember your allergy medicine when we do it for the school party on Christmas Eve."

"Okay," he said, more happily. "I won't forget."

"I, for one, think we should let him sneeze," said Gogo, biting the last bit of meat off his drumstick.

Mary and Sneezer stared at him, curious.

"What?" said Gogo. "We _blew_ away the crowd with our music. You heard them clapping. Just ask these two." He pointed one of his clean chicken bones at Hamton and Fifi.

"Oh, hey, guys!" said Mary brightly.

"Hi, Mary," said Hamton.

"Bonjour!" Fifi greeted. "Splendid performance."

"Thanks, Fifi," said Mary. "We're trying to get in some practice and perfecting our act for the oncoming party on the twenty-fourth. As luck would have it, CD's Records was also looking for a group to play a little holiday music for some cash, so it works out pretty well. Sneezer and Gogo are doing an awesome job. Really spirited. Anyway, are you and Hamton here with the rest of the gang?"

"Oh, no," Fifi answered. "It is just me and Hamton today."

"Oh?" said Mary, and Hamton could've sworn her tone held a note of interest at this fact. "You guys out Christmas shopping?"

"No," said Hamton, but then felt the plastic shopping bag in his hand. "Well, we both bought something from the Aroma Factory, but mostly we've just been going around, window shopping."

"You can't have!" said Gogo irritably. Everyone looked at him. "The Mall's banned window shopping since the first week of December. I should know because _I_ was banned a whole week for doing it! I mean, really? Banned just for window shopping!"

"Gogo, we talked about this," said Mary, sounding annoyed. "Window shopping means looking around without buying anything. You don't actually pull the store windows out from the display frames and go pay for them. Hamton and Fifi were just spending time browsing the Mall, that's it."

Gogo frowned. "Then why don't they just _say_ they're browsing around? Honestly, it's like people are _trying_ to confuse!"

Mary let out a groan and slapped her hand to her face.

Sneezer chose that moment to speak. "Would you two like to sing a carol with us?" he asked to Hamton and Fifi, looking quite adorable.

They both spoke at the same time.

Excited, Fifi said, "Oui!"

Nervous, Hamton said, "No, thank you."

They both looked at each other.

"Ah, come on, Mister Hamton Sir," said Sneezer encouragingly. "She wants to sing," he nodded toward Fifi. "What's wrong? Don't you want to sing with Miss Fifi Ma'am? Huh? Huh? Don't you like her?"

Hamton's face went very hot. Frightened that Fifi might notice, he quickly said, "Uh, on second thought, sure! I guess one song will be fine!"

"Great!" said Mary, and she sat back down at her piano. "What song would you guys like to sing?"

Hamton said nothing. His heart was still beating rather fast, even more so that Fifi was standing right beside him, so he couldn't form an answer.

Fifi tried to think of a song but found her mind too busy ringing with what Sneezer had said. _"Don't you want to sing with Miss Fifi Ma'am? Huh? Huh? Don't you like her?"_

Hamton thought. Besides the holiday music coming from the store speakers, he could hear the sounds of footsteps and voices outside. Children were giggling, whining, and awing over the toys, decorations, and activity in the Mall. Not a second passed in which a person didn't walk by the door. Some, Hamton noticed, were standing still and looking in, as though they were expecting to hear singing.

And then Hamton's ears picked up something else. It was coming from outside the store, quite some ways away by the sound of it — a familiar ringing he had heard on the streets for several days now.

Bells. A Salvation Army volunteer was ringing their bells.

Children and people . . . holiday spirit . . . and the chime of bells. Out of thin air, a light bulb appeared over Hamton's head.

"How about 'Silver Bells'?" Hamton suggested.

"Ooo!" said Fifi eagerly. "I like zat one!"

"Me too," agreed Mary. "'Silver Bells' it is. I don't think we'll need drums for this one, Gogo. You can take a break."

"Great," he said, and he hurled the bones from his drumsticks off to the side. There came a crash and a sheep bleated loudly. "Gives me time to enjoy some fish sticks!" He dropped onto his rear, reached around his green body and, from out of nowhere, pulled out two footlong, golden-battered fish sticks.

Mary rolled her eyes with a sigh. "All right, then. Sneezer, slowly and softly does it, okay?"

"Got it, Mary," said Sneezer with a thumps-up. He raised his saxophone to his lips.

"Okay, Hamton? Fifi? You two ready?"

"Oui! I am," said Fifi excitedly. A moment passed. "Hamton?"

Hamton didn't answer. A few customers were still looking their way, but shyness was only part of the reason for Hamton's hesitation. He had never sung a duet with Fifi. Whenever he did sing, it was always with his five friends as a group. Though some might not understand it or even laugh, the idea of singing with Fifi made Hamton feel something that mingled between nervousness and hopefulness. Fifi was, by far, a much better singer and he didn't want to embarrass her in case he messed up by singing the wrong octave or lyric.

Fifi seemed to notice this little struggle in Hamton's brain, so she did something that made his anxiety skyrocket.

She took his hand in hers.

"Hamton," she said softly, looking him in the eye. "Do not think about ze viewers. Just sing. Please . . . sing with me."

Hamton swallowed silently. "Okay," he said. He took a deep breath. Amazingly, he felt a little better, even more so given that Fifi was still holding his hand.

They both nodded to Mary.

"All right," said the young human. She straightened up on the bench and curved her fingers over the piano keys. "One . . . two . . . one, two, three, four."

They began with an even rhythm. Hamton was, again, amazed by Fifi's voice. Her French soprano mixed well with his American tenor, or at least Fifi thought so.

Mary played lightly, and Sneezer stepped in to provide the song's melody — a light jazzy tone.

Hamton sung his part, his mind full of the city and the frosted, festive air of December. Then Fifi took her turn, gazing lovingly towards the children and people who stopped to listen at the store's entrance.

Then, as the Salvation Army's bell continued to chime somewhere out of sight, Hamton's and Fifi's voices joined with Mary's piano and Sneezer's saxophone. They were all in sync, and Hamton felt more comfortable as he continued to hold Fifi's hand.

The rest of the song went without a hitch. Quite the contrary — at the end, Hamton and Fifi were surprised to hear an applause. The customers and people who had stopped by were clapping, and it was quite lively.

Hamton couldn't help but laugh. The song went way better than he imagined, and only when he turned around to Mary did he realize that Fifi had let go of his hand.

"Bravo, you guys!" said Mary happily. "Man, the two of you can bake AND sing? You guys make quite the pair!"

For whatever reason, the music coming from the store speakers slowed and trudged to halt.

Hamton blinked and his eyes expanded as large as saucers. Fifi's mouth fell slightly ajar and her cheeks went warm.

Mary, seeing their reactions, quickly added, "I mean, you both really work well together! That's what I meant," and she finished on an awkward laugh, a laugh which Hamton and Fifi joined in with a blush.

The Holiday music started up again.

"Uh, excusez-moi, everyone," Fifi stammered. "I need to use ze lady's room. Be right back, Hamton."

"O-okay," said Hamton, and he watched as Fifi quickly walked off.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Hamton," said Mary apologetically. "I didn't mean —"

"I know, it's okay," said Hamton at once. "We're not . . . you know . . . so it's no big deal. . . ."

A moment passed, and then Mary said, quite sympathetically, "But . . . you'd like to be, wouldn't you?"

Hamton reared his head up so quickly, he heard his neck give a light crack. "What?"

"Oh, Hamton . . ." Mary was shaking her head sadly. "It's just something we girls notice."

"What's a thing that girls notice?" asked Gogo, finishing the last bite of his crunchy fish sticks.

"Nothing important, Gogo," Mary lied. Gogo shrugged and padded his lips with a napkin.

Mary leaned in close to Hamton. "Don't let Gogo know. He's got the biggest mouth."

"A-HEM! I'll have you know," said Gogo, suddenly beside them, "that my mouth is _not_ the biggest. That title belongs to the loose-lipped blue whales in the Yap-a-lation Mountains in Wacky Land."

Mary's eyebrows lowered in annoyance. "I just had to speak." She turned back to Hamton and said, "Anyway, Hamton. Change of subject: I saw your fliers on the boards at school and was wondering if you'd like a job."

"That depends," said Hamton, interested. "What would you like me to do?"

"Well, me, Sneezer, and Gogo need someone to critique our singing and playing, to help us get ready for the party on Christmas Eve. All we need you to do is tell us where we need to improve."

"I'm not really a music expert, Mary," said Hamton uncertainly. "And you don't have to pay me for that."

"Of course, I would," said Mary. "You'd be surprised how much better musicians perform when they practice for a few people beforehand, so you'd be doing us a huge favor. And Hamton? You may disagree with me, but you really do have a good singing voice. It's not that hard to judge a song, especially when they're sung all Holiday season."

"Plus," said Sneezer, "we'll have lots of Christmas cookies to share. You can help yourself to as many as you want."

The offer was starting to sound inviting. It wouldn't involve any strenuous labor on Hamton's part, just his ears and opinion. Plus, there would be cookies. . . .

"Okay, Mary," said Hamton, happily. "When would you like to do this?"

"We'll be practicing at my house this next Tuesday. Does that day work for you?"

"Sure."

"Great, then," said Mary. "We'll look forward to seeing you."

"And we'll make sure we have cookies," Sneezer added eagerly.

Hamton smirked. "Thanks, Sneezer. That means a lot."

At this moment, Fifi returned from the bathroom. She looked a lot calmer.

"My apologies, Hamton," she said. "I hope I was not gone long."

"Oh, that's okay. Want to head out and do something else now?"

"Oui," she nodded, then turned to Mary. "Merci for letting us sing. It really was generous."

"The honor was all mine, Fifi," said Mary with a bow of her head. "As I said, you and Hamton work well together. You two have a fun evening and see you both on Monday."

"Bye," said Little Sneezer, waving.

"Ciao!" said Gogo, now waving a pair of giant mozzarella sticks.

"Gogo!" Mary exclaimed with annoyance. "Where did you get _those_?"

* * *

By 5:30, Hamton and Fifi both felt hungry and made their way back to the Food Court, hugging the wall to avoid the congested Mall-goers. But when they arrived, they stopped with their mouths hanging slightly ajar. Every single table was full of people and some were even eating while standing up. The lines leading up the mini-restaurants were moving like a parade of broken legs, and from the looks of it, it would be over two hours before Hamton and Fifi reached the front of any of them.

"Whoa. . ." Hamton looked from person to person. "I didn't know the Mall could hold this many people."

"Positively cramped, non?" asked Fifi, eyeing the congested crowed. She was feeling quite hungry now and looked for any possible opening but couldn't find any.

Then an bright idea came to her. "Hamton? How about we leave and go somewhere else?"

"Uh . . . okay," said Hamton. "Where do you have in mind?"

Smiling, Fifi reached under her white scarf and pulled out a folded white piece of paper. She unfolded it and grinned. "Frosty's."

Hamton looked closer at the slip — it was the gift certificate Fifi had won from the Talent Show.

"Let us be frank, Hamton," said Fifi, turning back to look at the crowd. "By ze time zhese people clear out, we shall both be near starved. And I am not too fond of zis Mall food, anyhow. How about we both go somewhere quiet and use ze rest of my certificate?"

Hamton raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Ice cream for dinner? Really?"

Fifi beamed and shrugged. "Why not? Zhere is no rule zat says dessert cannot come first, at least not here in America."

Hamton could happily think of no argument to this. "Okay. If you don't mind using the rest of your certificate."

"Of course I do not," said Fifi. "It will be my treat. Well," she giggled, " _our_ treat to share, to be more precise. So, shall we go?"

Hamton bowed. "Lead the way, mademoiselle."

And Fifi did, smiling at Hamton's flattering comment.

* * *

 **All comments welcome, positive and constructive.**


	26. Ice Cream and Snow

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995.**

* * *

 **Chapter 26**

 _Ice Cream and Snow_

 _~Dec. 13th~_

Night had fallen and the sky was darkened with clouds. It was a relief getting out of the overcrowded Mall and smell the fresh, cold winter air. There was still no wind, which made the walk to Frosty's altogether peaceful.

"So, Fifi . . ." said Hamton, averting his sight from Fifi and off to the side of the snowy sidewalk. "Silver Bells. . . . Where did you learn to sing like that?"

"Since childhood," Fifi answered. "I used to sing by myself quite a lot, just for enjoyment, but zen I tried choir and went further from zhere. Afterwards, I stopped singing for a while when we started _Tiny Toon Adventures_ , except for when we did ze theme song and a few select episodes. But zen, when it was done, Pepe took me on and I continued. But it is just a hobby, Hamton. I am far from being a professional."

Before Hamton could stop himself, he said, "You sound as good as one."

Fifi shook her head and giggled. "Oh, Hamton. You really are too kind. But . . ." she paused, and smiled, "zat is a very wonderful thing about you. . . ."

Hamton said nothing, but looked again at the sidewalk, feeling what was clearly a blush rushing across his cheeks.

Once at Frosty's Ice Cream Parlor, Hamton let out what felt like his first breath in over an hour, though the walk here had only taken around ten minutes.

They entered the warmly lit parlor.

"Ah, magnifique!" said Fifi, eyeing the cozy interior of the shop and the sweet aroma of the treats that lay within. There were only a few adults, chatting while eating ice cream or sipping hot cocoa. Making their way to the store's front counter, Hamton could see that one couple was rubbing each other's shoe from beneath the table and another pair had a single ice cream soda with two straws sticking out.

"So, Hamton," said Fifi, staring up at the menu, "what looks good to you?"

Hamton, realizing then that Fifi was talking to him, shot his attention up to the hanging menu. He had to squint and lean a bit to read the small writing.

-Rainbow Swirl Cone

-Chocolate Cocoa Fudge

-Vanilla-flavored Hot Chocolate

-Hot Fudge Ice Cream Sandwich (eat quickly)

-Mudpie Sundae (not made with real mud)

-Frosty's Snowman Scoop

-The A.C.M.E. (Apple Caramel Marshmallow Entrée)

The menu extended in both directions until it touched both walls, and the writing kept getting smaller and smaller until they eventually merged, making it near impossible to distinguish one flavor from the next.

Hamton let off a light laugh. "You think they'd make the board longer, maybe have it surround the other walls."

"Oui!" said Fifi, clutching a hand to her head. "Zis menu is way too obscured!"

"Yes, most sorry about that," came a man's voice from behind the counter. It had an Indian accent.

Hamton and Fifi's gaze fell from the overhead menu to the cashier who had appeared. He had short black hair, light brown skin, a black mustache and small beard, and a rather large nose. Hamton knew who he was. They had only seen each other a couple times over the last year, but Hamton remembered his face vividly. The last time he saw him, he and Plucky had both been yelled out of his store, and for a very good reason.

"Oh, uh, h-hi, Remi," said Hamton, trying not to feel nervous and failing miserably.

"Oh, hello, Hamton," said Remi, quite friendly. "It has been a long time. How have you been?"

"Fine," he said a little more calmly. "You work here now?"

"Just for the Holidays," answered Remi. "My cousin is the manager and he needed the day off to help prepare for the party going on up at the school on the twenty-fourth."

"Really?" asked Fifi, sounding interested. "Frosty's is going to be catering?"

"Oh, yes, lovely lady," said Remi, smirking. "Should be quite a good party with the selection my cousin is thinking about. We are even trying a few new items just for the holidays." He pointed up to the board, where the writing had to be crammed in order for there to be room for the numerous treats.

"A _few_ new items?" said Hamton, an eyebrow raised.

Remi smiled awkwardly. "My cousin had a lot of ideas. He's thinking of investing for a larger board, one that will go around the walls. Anyway," he said, straightening himself, "what can I get you two?"

Fifi and Hamton both turned to each other.

"Any ideas, Hamton?" asked Fifi.

Hamton looked back up at the monstrously long menu. "Not really. You?"

"Hmm . . ." Fifi's eyes wandered down the list and stopped on the side that was headed with the word 'NEW'. "Zat one sounds good. Zhere." She pointed at it the best she could, then said, "Ze Christmas Soufflé."

"Ah ha! Excellent eye, my dear," said Remi in agreement. "It is one of our tastiest creations, _and_ it is big enough to serve two people. Rich, soft chocolate, drizzled with a light trickle of sweet, icy strawberry and vanilla sauce. It will take around 20 minutes to make, but trust me, the taste is well worth the wait."

"Sounds great!" said Hamton eagerly.

"Oui!" said Fifi. "Very delectable!" Fifi pulled out her gift certificate. "We'll take one for here, monsieur."

"All right, then, my dear," said the man, and he took the certificate and worked the register. "I'll bring it when it's ready. Be ready with your spoons when I come, though," he advised, "because it could fall within minutes."

Remi walked back towards the kitchen and called out the order. Fifi turned and went to find a table.

"I'll be right there, Fifi," said Hamton. "I just need to tell Remi something."

Fifi nodded and walked off.

When Remi returned and saw Hamton still at the counter, he politely asked, "Is there something else you need, Hamton?"

Hamton hesitated, knowing the subject he was about to tread upon was a sensitive one. "Well . . ." Hamton forced himself to look at Remi. "I just wanted to say, I'm sorry about what me and Plucky did, Remi . . . all those years ago."

Remi looked confused. "What do you mean, Hamton?"

"You know . . ." Hamton glanced behind, making sure no one was listening. The last thing he wanted tonight was for Fifi to overhear this. "About the chocolate bar . . . the one me and Plucky —"

"Ooooh," said Remi, and to Hamton's unease, the polite man's smile faded.

"I can understand that you might still be angry and hate us, but I promise you, Remi, that we have never —"

"Oh, Hamton, Hamton," said Remi, waving his hand. "That is in the past. I am not happy about what you and Plucky did, but you and he did return it and admit to your mistake. So, bygones are bygones," and he smiled. "I forgive you . . . so long as you never go into my personal store again," he added seriously. "Got it?"

"Got it," said Hamton with a nod, to which Remi smiled. He turned to walk away, when Remi suddenly cleared his throat.

"By the way, Hamton," said the human.

"Yes?"

Remi smiled, then whispered. "Your girlfriend is _very_ beautiful."

Hamton's face went hot "She-she's not my girlfriend."

He smiled toothily at Remi, who raised an eyebrow.

Then, very quietly, Hamton said, "Well . . . not yet."

"Ah, well," said Remi with a chuckle, "maybe a little chocolate will help."

Still feeling a little staggered by Remi's words and playful smirk, Hamton walked over to Fifi who was sitting at a table just big enough for two people.

"Hamton, are you all right?" Fifi asked as he sat down. "Your face is a little red."

"Oh, uh . . . Remi just told a joke," Hamton invented on the spot. Then, fearing she might ask about the 'joke', quickly added, "Something silly, nothing important."

Fifi curious face slowly melt to one more relaxed. Hamton hated telling the lie, because, truth be told, what Remi said was something _quite_ meaningful, something Hamton _wished_ was true with all his being.

"So . . ." said Fifi, folding her hands and resting her elbows on the table.

"So . . ." said Hamton, trying to smile, but found it somewhat misplaced.

A few moments passed where they just listened to the chatter from the few customers. It was strange; while they had been drifting around the Mall, Hamton and Fifi could easily find subjects to talk about (perhaps because of the bustling atmosphere). Now that they were stationary and mostly alone, however, both of them suddenly found it difficult to get so much as a word out.

"So . . . Hamton," she said, clearing her throat. "What do you have planned for ze Holidays?"

"I'm not too sure yet," Hamton replied. "My parents are planning to come over on Christmas morning and we'll spend some time together. Might not be all day because of my parents' job, but we usually have lots of fun in the morning and afternoon."

"Oh? Such as?" asked Fifi, interested.

"Nothing big. Just small things. Unwrapping gifts, making and eating appetizers, watching Christmas movies, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, and taking the traditional Christmas photo. Just simple things like that, nothing big." Hamton couldn't help but feel some shyness at explaining his family's holiday traditions. They didn't sound at all exciting when told to another person.

"Zey sound very lovely, Hamton," said Fifi, and she truly meant it. "Little things like zat with your family, it iz very admirable. So many, I know, go to such trouble and make ze holiday more stressful zan fun."

"I know that feeling, too," said Hamton. _Perhaps a little too well_ , he thought in his head. "Whenever my family tries to put on a big family get-together or some big party, we usually end up scrambling all over the place like a bunch of crazed chickens. I swear, one time I heard them squawking."

Fifi giggled which Hamton found positively adorable. Clearing his throat, he said, "What about you, Fifi? What are your plans?"

Fifi quieted her laughter. "Oh, more or less, simple as well." She looked off to the side towards the tinsel-covered walls, smiling in thought. "My mama, papa, and sister, Gigi, will catch up with what we have done over ze last year. Zen me and mama will bake our favorite Christmas cookies and zen hand zem out to our neighbors and friends. We get especially kind comments on our chocolate."

"I bet you do," said Hamton, smirking. "Your chocolate from our Exploding Cakes class was wonderful." He could still smell and taste the rich scent from last week. "So you learned to bake from your mother?"

"Oui," Fifi nodded. "We both had a sweet tooth for chocolate at a young age. Zhough," and Fifi lightly padded her small belly for emphasis, "thankfully we were more inclined with _making_ it for others razher zen _eating_ it ourselves. We love chocolate, _very_ much so, but we do not wish to eat so much of it zat we end up getting fat —" Fifi stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened. "Oh, Hamton, I am sorry! Zat was so rude of me!"

"Huh?" said Hamton, tilting his head in question.

"I did not mean to say . . . I was not trying to say you are . . ." Fifi didn't say the word, but she patted her stomach again, and Hamton, understanding, let out a laugh.

"Oh, Fifi," said Hamton, smiling, "it's okay. Please don't feel bad about that. It's a clear fact that I'm tubby. Being a pig and a big eater, it's not that surprising. Large bellies are pretty much in my family's DNA. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, and I'm trying to cut back on how much I eat now. Having Furrball to feed has helped me with that."

Fifi let out a breath of relief and eased in her chair; The last thing she wanted to do was insult someone, especially someone as sweet and kind as Hamton.

Deciding to change the subject, Hamton asked, "You said you have a sister, Fifi?"

"Oui," she replied. "A leettle sister, Gigi."

"What's she like? Does she look like you?"

"A leettle bit. She may have looked more like me when I was her age. She just turned twelve zis last autumn, but her fur is pink and her eyes are a light blue. And," Fifi stopped, feeling both proud and a little resentful, "she has already found her first boyfriend. A poodle boy, name Jereme."

Hamton chuckled. "She must be cute."

"Oh, I suppose," said Fifi offhandedly, rolling her eyes. "She certainly can be, especially around our parents and other people, but when me and her are alone," Fifi looked suddenly annoyed, "she can be ze biggest, most rotten leettle stink bug you have ever ze displeasure of meeting!"

Taken slightly aback by her sudden tone, Hamton added, "But you must love her, Fifi."

"Of course I do," she said more calmly. "She does not _always_ act like zat, in fact she can be very sweet to me. But at times her sense of humor can be downright irritating."

"Well, she must be good and adorable if she has you for a sister." Realizing with a jolt of what he just said, Hamton sunk back a little in his chair and gazed off at a red-cushioned booth, his cheeks quite warm.

Fifi said nothing, but smiled softly.

"Uhh. . .yeah," said Hamton awkwardly.

He looked up to the store's clock. Only ten minutes had elapsed since he and Fifi had sat down. The weight of the store's air seemed to weigh down upon the young pig and skunk. What was more, the two couples who sat a few tables away were now snuggling and kissing, quite forgetting their ice cream sundae which was melting over the sides of its bowl.

Fifi noticed the couple too, and she and Hamton both shared a blush at witnessing these acts of affection.

"So," said Hamton hesitantly, wanting more than anything to break the silence, "are your parents coming here to Acme Acres?"

"Non," said Fifi. "We always have our Christmases in Paris. As soon as ze party at ze school is finished, I will use Acme Fast-Travel to fly to France. I will be zhere in less than five minutes, but since Paris is on ze Eastern hemisphere, it will technically be morning when I arrive."

"Wow," said Hamton with a laugh. "You won't even have to wait for Christmas morning."

"Oui," Fifi responded with a laugh. "But, if I had ze choice, it would be nice to have one Christmas here in Acme Acres. Zat way I could introduce you and all our friends."

"But still, Paris must be beautiful this time of year."

"Oh, it is."

Fifi went on to explain the details in which a Paris holiday would look like, and from the sounds of it, Hamton wouldn't mind a visit there himself. Just as Fifi was about to explain what her parents did for a living, Remi walked out from behind the counter, carrying a large plate under which sat a steaming, porcelain ramekin.

"Here it is," said Remi happily. "Enjoy you two, or, as they say in France, 'Bon-appetite.'" He walked back to the counter, leaving Hamton and Fifi to gaze at the dish in front of them.

"It's . . . amazing," said Hamton, his mouth watering.

Fifi gave it a light sniff. "Ooh, la, la! I recognize zat smell! Authentic French chocolate!"

Hamton had never smelled anything like it. The only thing that came close was the cake he and Fifi made in class a week ago. The chocolate soufflé was giving off an aroma that almost lifted Hamton out of his chair. The top was drizzled with white and pink cross-hatches over atop a light padding of powdered sugar. It was a treat to just look at it.

Remembering that this was a dessert infamous for falling quickly, Hamton and Fifi picked up the two spoons laying on the plate and both scooped a bite from out of the ramekin. As expected, the soufflé deflated slightly, but not by much, still keeping a reasonable shape.

Both Hamton and Fifi took a bite. And then they just sat there, spoons in their mouths, their eyes wide. Time seemed to have stopped and every taste bud seemed to sing a heavenly cheer.

Rich. Sweet. Woody and warm. Creamy vanilla and sweet strawberry, all dancing a tango on a chocolate cloud, dissolving and melting in the mouth like warm honey.

Finally, they swallowed.

Hamton let out a soft sigh of bliss.

"Le sigh..." Fifi said with equal pleasure, and she took another bite. Swallowing, she added, "Like silk, non?"

"Oui," said Hamton, smiling uncontrollably.

Neither Hamton nor Fifi said much afterwards but savored each bite of their soufflé. Each bite was as delicious as the one before. The moist chocolate felt as fluffy as marshmallow, and the strawberry and vanilla were just the right amount. Finally, there was only one little bit left.

"You have it, Fifi," said Hamton, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Fifi looked down into the ramekin. The sides were stained with dark brown from where the soufflé had touched. Smiling, she placed her spoon inside, but pulled it out without the final piece.

Hamton leaned and peered inside. The chocolaty slice had been cut in two. He looked back up at Fifi, who smiled warmly. Together, they shared the two pieces.

With a clatter of the two spoons in the ramekin, Fifi leaned back in her chair. "Zat was simply wonderful. I hope it was as good for you, Hamton."

"Oh, it was," said Hamton, folding up his used napkin. "I don't think I've had chocolate like that months. You were right: dessert for dinner was a brilliant idea."

He glanced over to the clock on the wall. It read 6:45.

"You want to get going?" asked Hamton.

"Might as well," said Fifi with a nod. "No use eating when you are already full, non?"

Hamton chuckled. "Good point." _My parents, however, may find some debate with that subject. . . ._

They both sat up, returned the ramekin back to the counter, thanked Remi who waved them good night, then walked to the exit.

Hamton's hand barely touched the door when it pulled open automatically, the bell above giving a soft ring. Someone came into view: a handsome, calm black and white furred Toon dressed in a red scarf.

"Ah, bonjour, Hamton," greeted Pepe Le Pew. "Ah! And lovely seeing you, Fifi."

The two teenagers walked out of Frosty's and closed the door which jingled shut.

"Good evening, Pepe," said Fifi brightly. "Come for a sweet treat?"

"Oui," he nodded. "I just finished reading my 50th romance novel zis month and decided to celebrate with some ice cream. Have you two had one yourselves?"

"Yeah," said Hamton. "Me and Fifi just had the best soufflé."

"Oh?" asked Pepe, interested.

"It was truly ze best," Fifi agreed, remembering the heavenly taste. "French chocolate, soft and warm, and just ze right touch of vanilla and strawberry sauce on top. Reminds me slightly of Neapolitan ice cream, except with more chocolate."

"Sounds delicue," said Pepe. "I think I will like to experience zat myself. And where are you two off to now?"

Neither Hamton nor Fifi answered.

"Uh . . ." Hamton hesitated, trying to think of where to go next.

"If I may suggest," said Pepe, holding up a finger, "ze City Park would be worth a visit. Ze paths have all been shoveled and zhere are a few people down zhere already, enjoying ze place. And, given how ze weather is currently, it should be quite heartwarming."

"Sounds magnifique," said Fifi.

"Yeah, same here," said Hamton, happy at the suggestion offered. "Well, I guess we'll-"

"If it is all right, Hamton," said Pepe, "may I please talk to Fifi alone for a moment?"

Hamton looked from him to Fifi, who appeared just as puzzled.

"Uh, sure," said Hamton, and without bothering to ask further detail, he stepped off to the side of a nearby city lamppost, his ears tuning in to the sound of cars in the far-off city.

Fifi turned back to see Pepe take a step forward and whispered, "So, Fifi, how is your date so far?"

Fifi didn't answer at first. She was too caught off guard by the suddenness of this question, as well as her cheeks going suddenly warm in the cold winter air. "Oh, it is fine. It is actually going smoothly. No complaints at all." Looking down to her hand, having almost forgotten that it was there, she held up her plastic bag from the Aroma Factory. "Hamton bought me a candle."

"Are you happy with him?" asked Pepe, eyeing Fifi critically as though trying to detect anything amiss.

"Oh, oui. Everything is wonderful."

"And do you feel . . . _anything_?"

Fifi paused to glance back over at Hamton, who seemed determined to keep his eyes and ears diverted from her and Pepe's talking by staring at a 25% sale sign in a nearby shop window.

Finally, Fifi answered, "I . . . I do not know yet. I mean, I am having a lovely time, but . . ." Fifi gripped the ends of her white scarf and suddenly felt rather petty without knowing why. "I just do not know. . . ."

"Zat is all right," said Pepe gently. "You and Hamton are enjoying yourselves and zat all zat matters."

From behind, the two skunks and Hamton heard the clock tower chime 7:00.

"I better let you get back to it," said Pepe, and he opened the door to Frosty's. Before walking inside, he added, "Remember Fifi, listen to your feelings. Trust zem."

Fifi did not nod or respond as Pepe walked away into the shop. She spent a few seconds staring at the door's base, mulling over what Pepe said, before she turned around and met Hamton at the light post.

"Everything okay, Fifi?" Hamton asked curiously.

"Oui," she said softly. "Pepe just asked how I was doing, and I told him ze truth."

Hamton stared at her. "You doing all right? I mean, are you having fun?"

"Of course I am," she said, and she made sure her voice implied it too. "Come. Let us visit ze park."

And they set off, both of their minds abuzz: Hamton, wondering Fifi was thinking, and Fifi, wondering whether she really understood what she was thinking.

* * *

There was no wind to be felt. The dark sky above had become more clouded over and there was just the faintest silvery glow of the waning moon. It was a decent winter night, and though it was cold, it was not uncomfortable. Even Hamton, who didn't have any gloves, felt at ease with the peaceful night air.

When he and Fifi arrived outside the Acme Park gates, a light snow started to fall. The two of them walked in. The bare trees on both sides of the path were coated with snow and seemed to glow lightly in the light of the park's lampposts. The snow crunched gently under their feet and a distance away they could hear voices.

They turned a corner around a small patch of white, clumped bushes, and there in the park's clearing was a group of people, rejoicing in the festiveness of winter. A couple kids were laughing and tossing snowballs at each other, which exploding into a cloud of white flakes every time they hit or missed their target. A few adults and children alike were ice-skating on the frozen pond, putting Hamton in mind of a classic TV Christmas special. A couple snow angels laid on the ground, staring up at the falling snow which resembled moving stars. And down by the pond, sitting on the park benches, were a few older couples, some talking while one was throwing seeds to a few happy chickadees.

Hamton and Fifi stepped out into the opening and headed towards an empty bench which neighbored a snowman. Fifi sat down on the bench. Before joining her, Hamton took a closer look at the snowman's chest, for he saw that it was wearing a name tag.

"Parson Brown," said Hamton, who then let out a laugh. "How fitting. Perfect scene for him to be in."

"Indeed." Fifi skootched over to make room for Hamton as he sat down. "Pepe was telling ze truth. Zis is all so very beautiful," Fifi said, marveling at the people skating across the pond.

For a while, they sat there and watched the surrounding joy. It was a pleasant and quiet time. Hamton could feel the snowflakes falling atop his hands and melting, but not becoming the slightest bit cold. It was winter at its serenest.

Fifi watched the kids and their snowball fight. She smiled at two parents becoming overpowered by the quickness of their two children, and suddenly, Fifi found herself back in Paris.

 _A little girl with her baby sister, playing happily in the snow, and her parents were watching and tossing snow in the air as she and Gigi tried to catch the snowflakes._

"You know what, Hamton?" said Fifi, and she was still watching the family play. "Zis all reminds me of my family. We used to love playing in ze snow when I was leettle. We loved coming to ze parks and doing all of zis." Then she turned to the skaters. "My mother and father both loved to skate when zey were young."

"Really?" asked Hamton, interested by this family history.

"Oui," nodded Fifi, smiling warmly. "Zey were never professional, but zey could skate well enough to show how much zey felt."

Fifi closed her eyes, to the park, its pond, everything — and it was as though she were back in time, long before she was born. She could see her parents, skating hand in hand, stealing looks of affection every now and then. And suddenly, Fifi felt a familiar warmth build inside her chest.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, eyes still shut, she stood up from the bench.

"When zey were young, zey would play a game," said Fifi, and she began to move in a dreamy sort of way, as though trying to dance. "My mother would chase my father around on ze ice, and if she got close enough to tag him, he would have to stand still and let her kiss him on ze cheek." She giggled, holding her hands to her face. "Oh, my father, he would blush so hard."

Hamton smirked at the idea of two young skunks skating, one running frantically while the other pursued in determined passion; Kind of reminiscent of Pepe Le Pew's cartoons in prancing down love.

"I guess, in a way, zey taught each other how to skate," said Fifi. "Both became good over ze years. Some days, my father would manage to avoid, and others my mother would simply pounce to kiss his cheek."

Again, Fifi twirled, lost in the cuteness of her parent's imagined past. "Le sigh. . . .

It was then that Hamton caught a whiff of it.

"Uh . . . Fifi?" he said suddenly.

"One day, maman started winning more often zan she was used to," Fifi continued happily, caught in thoughts of her parent's growing romance. "When she asked papa why he was getting so slow, he said, 'I love it when you win,' and zen, for ze first time, he kissed her back."

Fifi's heart felt like a fire. It was warmth in such a way that her fur and scarf couldn't match. She thought of nothing but her mother and father's affection and wished she herself could experience it.

But then, at that moment, a child's voice called out. "EW! Mommy, what's that smell?"

Fifi's daydream popped like a bubble. Her eyes shot open and saw that everyone in the Park was glancing towards her, a squirming, discomforted look to their faces. Only Hamton, who was closest, didn't look uneased. No . . . he just looked worried and, was Fifi mistaken, sympathetic?

"It's a skunk!" came a man from the ice. "Pee-YEW!"

Fifi sniffed the air and, at once, dread gripped at her insides like a steel brace. She was emitting a very familiar smell — a smell which she hardly ever noticed except when she used it for defense.

A man screamed. "Oh, lord! I think my nose is bleeding!"

"I can't breathe!" screeched a teenage girl.

"It's in my mouth!"

"Save the children!"

"Call poison control!"

Everyone scrambled out of the Park, kicking up snow and leaving trails and even precise outlines in the snow banks as people rushed through them.

Hamton turned quickly from side to side. He and Fifi were the only ones left. A half-finished snowman over by a hill was missing its head. A pair of sleds laid abandoned, toppled over in the snow. A bag of seeds had spilt over onto the ground near a flock of very eager birds.

But Hamton had no attention for any of this. His nose hardly giving a twitch, he stepped towards Fifi, who had turned away and was facing the frozen pond. Her tail was laying limp on the snow, no longer giving off its odor. Her head was bowed and her shoulders were slumped. It was more than enough for Hamton to guess what she must be feeling.

"Fifi?" he asked delicately.

She didn't respond. The park was totally quiet except for Hamton's footsteps.

"Fifi?" he repeated.

He reached out and touched her soft shoulder.

"I am sorry. . ." she said weakly. "I did not mean —"

"Fifi, it's all right," said Hamton soothingly. "It's not your fault. It was just an accident. You were thinking about something happy."

"Oui." She let out a sob. "But zis happens every time!"

Hamton felt her shake slightly. She turned to the side, and her wet eyes were fixed on the ground.

"I do not understand it," said Fifi, her words choked. "Every time, it happens. I think about something romantic, something wonderful and beautiful, or I see a handsome skunk walk my way, and zis . . ." she paused in her sentence and shook her hand at her large tail, still limp on the ground. " _Zis_ smell appears and. . ."

Fifi glanced around the deserted park clearing. "Le sigh . . . I find myself alone . . . as always. . . ."

Hamton bowed his head. He didn't know what he was supposed to do or say. "Fifi, please don't cry. I'm sure there's something that —."

"Zhere is nothing anyone can do, Hamton," she said grimly. "I have tried every form of scent removal to cover it up, zhough I have as much luck with zat as finding a boyfriend. Soap, detergent, air-freshener, I have tried everything. I even once tried a tomato juice bath, which _did_ work but . . . I did not like it because zen I just stank of tomatoes. And honestly . . ." she around turned to face him, her eyes wet, "Hamton . . . I do not feel right without my smell. I am a skunk. We are not trying to be filthy or come across as dirty. It is just in our natures to stink a bit."

Hamton frowned. "I'm really sorry, Fifi. I didn't know that bothered you so much. You shouldn't feel bad about that, though. Like you said, it's just part of being a skunk, and it's not right that people hold it against you."

He wasn't sure whether his words had any effect or not. Fifi looked down and wiped her face and nose with her palm.

"Hamton . . . If it is all right with you . . . I think I would like to go home now. . . ."

Hamton stared at her with forlorn sympathy. He really would've liked to spend a little more time at the park with her, but at seeing Fifi in such a down mood, he felt it would've been insensitive to disagree.

"Okay," he said in the most refined voice he could manage. Together they headed back to the park entrance, accompanied by no one but a gentle, falling snow.

* * *

Hamton and Fifi walked without a word. Both were staring down at the sidewalk, a downcast look to their eyes, neither knowing what to say and thus waiting for the other to speak. But several minutes passed and all they heard was the continuous crunching of snow beneath their feet and the occasional car driving down the road.

The snow continued to drift softly; most of Acme Acres was already covered in a thin blanket of white. The temperature was also becoming rather brisk; Hamton's bare hands could feel it in the pits of his pockets.

Walking ever closer to the City Dump, Hamton couldn't help but feel a small twinge of failure in the bottom of his heart. He had not expected his time with Fifi to end like this. Everything had been going so well: he and Fifi had fun browsing at the Mall, they even got to sing a little bit, and that soufflé was fit to be served in Heaven. And then, after a brief visit into a literal winter wonderland, everything came to an untimely and abrupt finish. What was more, after all their time together tonight, Hamton still had no idea whether or not Fifi really thought of this as a date. He, Hamton, believed it was . . . but . . . .

Before he knew it, he and Fifi stopped outside the wooden fence and were at the entrance to the Dump. The slippery patch of ice was now covered from the falling snow and so Hamton stood atop of it quite steadily.

He looked up at Fifi and she looked up at him, and for a while they just stared, still waiting for the other to say something, anything to break the silence between them. . . .

Hamton opened his mouth.

"So . . ." He inwardly groaned. Could he have acted more stupid?

"Oui . . ." Great, Fifi thought dismally, now she was feeling foolish as well as forlorn. Hamton must think her a real sad sight.

Finally, Hamton let out a great sigh. "Fifi . . . I'm sorry I couldn't do anything back there. I should've—"

"Non, non, Hamton!" Fifi urged, grabbing and patting his hand. "It was my fault! I should not have been so self-conscious. After all," she gave a light laugh, "it was not ze first time my smell got in ze way, and it probably will not be —"

"I don't mind your smell."

There was silence.

Fifi looked completely taken aback. "Pardon?"

Hamton felt his cheeks flush. "I said I don't mind your smell. . . ."

Fifi might not have believed it if she didn't see Hamton's lips move with each word.

Seeing she had clear disbelief, Hamton patted her hand still in his and went on, "Don't get me wrong, I did smell it, but, honest, Fifi, it _doesn't_ bother me, it really doesn't. I mean, look at _me_ ," he said with a smirk. "Pigs are just as famous for being smelly, and when you're a pig, you often smell a lot of weird things, but over time you learn not to let them bother you so much."

"But . . . Hamton," Fifi said, "you are not like zat. You like things zat are clean and rosy. You hate dirt and foul smells."

"Yeah, most of the time I do," he clarified with a shrug. "I don't like garbage or mold or rotten things like that, but . . ." Hamton stared into her eyes. "Fifi . . . I honestly don't mind your smell. I never have. I know it's there, but it's _never_ bothered me, not once. And even if it did, I would gladly live with it just to stay close to you. Seriously, what's a little smell compared to the beautiful woman standing in front of me?"

There was no hesitance in his words. It was honesty at its kindest and simplest. Hamton J. Pig — the ones who hates mud and adores cleanliness — didn't mind in the slightest that Fifi La Fume had an odor that made all other boys gag and gasp for air.

In his eyes she was a normal girl . . . a beautiful woman.

Before Fifi could stop herself, she flung arms around him, and at once that same feeling she felt a week ago when Hamton had comforted her returned. And it was even warmer than the last time.

Hamton stood there, shocked, unable to move.

Fifi pressed her cheek to his. She beamed at how smooth his skin was to her face, at how wonderful she felt being so close. On the verge of tears, she said, "You are ze sweetest boy I have ever met, Hamton."

And then, without thinking, it slipped out.

"And you're the most wonderful girl I kn-"

Hamton felt his throat close up and his eyes widen. He heard the crinkling and clunk of a bag being dropped to the ground — he had let go of his candle.

He pulled back, alarmed by what he said. What was worse, Fifi looked startled too, but from what — his words or his sudden action — Hamton wasn't fully sure.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Sputtering, feeling his heart grow like a lead stone, Hamton quickly blurted, "Uh-um . . . I mean . . . .W-well, um . . . uh . . . have a nice time?"

Then, hating himself and feeling more stupid than he ever felt in his life, Hamton ran for it. He dashed away down the sidewalk, around the corner, and made a beeline towards home.

Fifi stood alone beside the quiet street, eyeing the spot where Hamton had vanished, his candle resting at her feet. Slowly, she brought her hand up to her face. She could feel her cheek burning in the cold winter night.

Her violet eyes free of tears, she glanced up at the gentle, falling snow and smiled lovingly.

"Thank you, Hamton."

* * *

$920

-$500 (Monty's jobs)

+3 (Grape-spice candle)

$423

 _$423 to go - 11 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments welcome, positive and constructive.**


	27. Babs' Second Request

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995.**

* * *

 **Chapter 27**

 _Babs' Second Request_

 _~Sunday, Dec. 14th~_

When Hamton woke in his bedroom on Sunday morning he had a very blurred memory of all that had happened the night before. The dullness of sleep was numbing and strangely pleasant, and for those few seconds he felt calm and happy. Then, as though a distant part of his mind awoke from its own slumber, a series of horrible, humiliating images rose their many ugly, snarling heads.

The unfortunate scene with Fifi's odor at the park. Hamton's feeble words at trying to make her feel better. And that one last sentence. . . .

 _"And you're the most wonderful girl I kn-"_

With a loud groan, Hamton threw his hands into his face and fell back hard onto his pillow. He thrashed around on his bed like a man suffering a seizure, stopping every so often to catch his breath and to groan, then toss and turn some more.

What on earth had he been thinking?! What possessed him to say that sentence aloud? How much worse could he have possibly made himself look in front of Fifi? The date would've ended beautifully if it hadn't been for those seven-and-a-half bumbling words!

And the look on Fifi's face when he said it . . .

"Stupid, stupid!" Hamton muttered harshly. Good lord, he might as well have kissed her while he was at it!

Hamton continued berating himself for another full minute, but then heard knocking on his bedroom door. He paused and listened. There came a curious meow.

"Come in," said Hamton.

The door opened and Furrball entered, looking very concerned and giving another curious meow.

"I'm fine, Furrball," said Hamton tiredly. "I'm just . . . oh, I don't know!"

With a heavy sigh, Hamton dragged his legs over the side of his bed and dropped face-first onto the carpet, landing on the sprawled-out clothes he wore last night.

"Meow," said Furrball gently. He rested his hand on Hamton's shoulder and began to pat it.

Trying to smile, Hamton stood up and looked to his friend.

"Hungry, Furrball?" he asked.

The cat gave a light shrug, perhaps out of concern for Hamton's current embarrassment.

"Well, I can certainly go for some comfort food," said Hamton, who didn't eat any dinner when he arrived home last night, though at the time he didn't have anything resembling an appetite. "Come on. I'll make us some eggs and hash browns."

He didn't bother changing out of his pajamas. Though he had slept for eight straight hours, he still felt groggy because of the memories replaying mercilessly in his head. He tried not to think, and instead tried to focus on cracking eggs and frying them in the pan. Furrball stood next to him, stirring the hash browns in a separate pan, smiling gently in Hamton's direction.

Halfway through eating breakfast, Hamton felt the strength to finally do something other than chew and contemplate his gloomy thoughts. Furrball had been staring at him with quiet concern since the moment they sat down and started eating, and Hamton knew he would only feel worse if he allowed Furrball to continue worrying.

He hadn't told his friend what had happened the night before. All Hamton remembered saying last night as he burst through the front door was, "Stupid! I was so _stupid_!" before rushing to his bedroom and wallowing in self-disappointment.

With a sigh, Hamton put down his fork. "Sorry if I've been worrying you, Furrball."

The blue cat looked up. Already he seemed relieved that the long silence had been lifted.

For the next five minutes, Hamton explained all that happened on his date with Fifi. He told Furrball about the candle he bought for her and the one she bought for him. Furrball's eyebrows rose in curiosity at this statement, for Hamton had come home empty-handed.

"Not quite there yet," he said, his cheeks already burning at the memory.

Then he told how he and Fifi sang "Silver Bells" with Mary Melody. Hamton managed to smile at this thought; Fifi's beautiful voice still rang in the present.

Then there was the soufflé they shared at Frosty's.

"Meow?" asked Furrball, his eyes wide.

"Yeah . . . we shared it," said Hamton, frowning. "So what?" But as he asked, Hamton suddenly understood. Though he and Fifi had used two separate spoons, they had eaten from the same dish, taken bites from the same dessert. . . .

Hamton shook his head. Now was not the time for that. Besides, the idea of having _Fifi's_ germs actually felt inviting.

"Anyway," he continued, "as we were leaving, we ran into Pepe Le Pew outside the door and Fifi and he walked off to talk for a moment."

"Meow?"

"I don't know," Hamton replied, "I didn't overhear. Besides, it would've been rude to eavesdrop. Afterwards, we went to the Park, then —" Hamton voice broke as though it had hit a stop sign. Would it be tactless to tell Furrball about the incident with Fifi's odor and how the parkgoers ran for the hills? The very last thing on earth Hamton wanted to do was hurt Fifi's feelings or insult her image. Although . . . he might have already done that when he ran from her out of embarrassment.

"Meow?"

Hamton looked up. With a questioning look, Furrball reached behind and pulled his tail around to his front. He pointed at it and then wiggled his blue, furry fingers in the air.

"Yeah. . . ." Hamton admitted with a sigh. Furrball had hit the nail squarely on the head. "Fifi accidently let off her smell. She was thinking of romantic thoughts."

Furrball gave a sympathetic meow and dropped his tail back behind his chair.

Hamton continued. "We left straight after. I walked Fifi back to the Dump and then . . . then. . ." He swallowed. That creeping, hot sensation was running through his cheeks again. But then he remembered that Furrball was a friend. He could surely tell him. "Then I told Fifi I didn't mind her smell."

Furrball stopped drinking his orange juice and raised his eyebrows in such a way that it was obvious that he was skeptical.

"I mean it," said Hamton, his face feeling hot. "I've never minded Fifi's smell before. Don't ask me why, Furrball. To you and everyone else it's strong, but to me it's just a smell. I mean, yeah, I know it's there, but it doesn't make me gag or anything. Besides . . . I like Fifi far too much to care about something like that." Flushing, Hamton paused and looked down at his half-eaten breakfast. Admitting his feelings, even to a friend, wasn't easy.

"Meow," said Furrball, smiling softly.

At Furrball's friendly tone, Hamton cleared his throat, knowing he was about to feel even more embarrassed.

"Then. . ." he hesitated, reimagining the most wonderful thing that happened last night. "Fifi hugged me . . . and said I was sweet."

Furrball smiled. "Awww. . . ."

Then Hamton shouted, "AND THEN I TOLD FIFI SHE'S THE MOST WONDERFUL GIRL I KNOW!"

Furrball jerked in alarm and dropped his fork, not from the statement, but from the desperate volume in which Hamton bellowed.

"I mean, of all the things I could've said!" cried Hamton. "And after that, I dropped my candle and ran for it! I just left Fifi standing there, staring while I ran!"

His elbows pressed painfully onto the table, Hamton pushed his hands hard to his face so that his sigh sounded more like a groan.

"She probably thinks I'm a real coward!" he bemoaned.

Through his fingers, he could see Furrball looking at him — not with embarrassment or derision as he expected, but with pity.

He heard the cat get up from his chair and walk away from it, out of the kitchen probably. But, for the second time that day, Hamton felt a soft grip on his shoulder. He pulled his face out from his hands and looked to see Furrball, facing him with a friendly smile.

"You don't think I acted stupidly?" asked Hamton.

Hesitantly, Furrball's eyes turned to the ceiling. He made a kind of face that was mixed between unease and not wanting to say his honest feelings. But then he looked back to Hamton and meowed a couple times.

Silently, he took in what Furrball said, then sighed and straightened himself up in his chair.

"Well . . ." said Hamton, shrugging in agreement, "I guess it _could've_ been worse. I could've thrown up. I certainly felt like I was going to."

He and Furrball shared a light laugh, but, remembering they were half-way through breakfast, Hamton replied, "Sorry for saying that," before picking up his fork and taking a bite of his scrambled egg, trying not to feel sick as he chewed.

* * *

It's a funny thing: how a simple gesture or act from a friend can improve a person's mood. Though he wasn't much of a speaker, Furrball's actions spoke as clearly as any words of comfort, and for that reason Hamton felt better after finishing breakfast.

After showering, donning a fresh pair of overalls and tossing his discarded jeans and long-sleeve shirt from last night into the wash, he joined Furrball on the couch where they enjoyed an hour of delightful relaxation by watching TV.

As the shows and commercials played, Hamton tried to forget about his awkward moment with Fifi. He forced his mind to think of happy things, like him and Fifi singing or smelling candles or sharing a soufflé from the same ramekin.

And though Hamton managed to push out most of the one bad memory, his mind started brewing up new thoughts about Fifi. What was she doing right now? How did she feel now that she knew Hamton thought her 'wonderful?' What would he and her say to each other when they walked to school tomorrow?

Then a terrifying thought entered: What if she was angry?

Hamton slumped backwards on the couch and his head sagged, ignoring the Christmas movie as unpleasant scenarios formed inside his mind.

 _"'How disappointing!" Fifi shouted. "Running away like a scared piglet! And to theenk, I asked YOU out on a date!"_

 _With a harsh "HMPH!", Fifi marched away by turning and slapping Hamton's horrified face with her large, fluffy tail. This time the smell went through Hamton's nose like a hot pitchfork._

The scene changed. Now Hamton was running towards Fifi.

 _"Fifi!" he cried, out of breath and his side aching. "Fifi, wait! Please, let me try again!"_

 _She turned a corner out of sight, and when Hamton reached it, he stopped dead in his tracks, horrified._

 _A few feet away stood Fifi, dressed in a bikini, looking at him with an atypical smirk on her face. And she wasn't alone. She was leaning against a tall, muscular, shirtless male skunk, who looked at Hamton with a smug grin, his strong arm wrapped around Fifi's bare, slender waist._

 _"Oh, you silly, stupid pig," said Fifi, her tone playful, full of scorn and ridicule. It wasn't anything like Fifi's normal voice, which Hamton knew so well._

 _"You poor, delusional fool," she added with a cruel giggle. "Why would I ever want YOU for a boyfriend? How could you allow yourself to think zat YOU, a fat, slow, flabby nobody could ever match up to my darling, dashing, drop-dead skunk-hunk?"_

 _Hamton couldn't breathe. It was as though a rope was wrapping around his neck and his heart was bleeding out through his eyes. And then, to his heartbroken stare, Fifi and the male skunk turned to each other. The stud lifted Fifi off her feet and drew her in, her curvy chest pressed against his. Their lips drew ever close. . . ._

Everything went dark, and Hamton, horrified by what he had just seen, gasped and looked in every direction for some trace of Fifi. But she wasn't there. Nobody was there.

Thankfulness flooded through Hamton. It had all just been in his head. There was no skunk-hunk. That nightmarish thing he had almost witnessed wasn't real. It hadn't really happened.

But then Hamton heard something from behind. He turned. And there, standing three feet away from him . . . was himself.

 _"You chickened out," Hamton said with a glare._

Hamton stared.

 _"You ran like a scared little wimp."_

Bowing his head, Hamton said, "I know I did."

 _"You had her with her arms around you."_

"I know," Hamton repeated, frowning bitterly.

 _"You don't deserve to date a girl like her."_

"I . . . no!" shouted Hamton, looking up and glaring himself down. "I messed up, yeah! But I also told —"

 _"Oh, sure," Hamton derided. "Like telling Fifi how you feel will mean anything."_

"What?"

 _"Face it! Face the truth! Shouldn't be hard, seeing as its staring right at you! You're not a skunk, and that's what Fifi wants! She might not say it, but it's_ _obvious_ _!"_

"She asked me out on a —!"

 _"She never SAID it was a date!"_

"Then how do you explain —?"

 _"Curiosity! Dumb, stupid, girly curiosity! She had a wild idea and thought she'd have some fun with you. Probably meant it as a joke! And if it WAS a date, it was a failure!"_

Rage flared through Hamton's heart. He gritted his teeth and fought the desire to punch himself in the face.

 _"You want Fifi in your arms? You want her to see YOU as her skunk-hunk? Then you know what you have to do."_

He reached behind his back and pulled out a shiny, purple heart-shaped bottle with a gold cap.

Hamton's rage died at the sight of the sparkling perfume. Sure, it wasn't in _his_ hand, but the mere image of him holding it was a spirit lifter.

 _"Yesssss . . . that'sssss right,"_ said his image smoothly, drawing his s's out like a snake. _"You know what you have to do. You're so close, you have only a couple hundred dollars left. The sooner you get them, the sooner you'll get this."_ He jiggled the perfume bottle. _"And when you finally have. . ."_

The double turned. Hamton copied him.

Fifi had appeared from out of nowhere. Still wearing her bikini, her eyes expanded with glee at the sight of the perfume bottle. Then, for whatever reason, a blindfold appeared and wrapped around Fifi's eyes. Regardless, however, she shot right towards Hamton's mirror image and wrapped her arms and tail around him, pressing her face into the side of the twin's head as little red hearts appeared over them.

A few moments passed with Hamton lost in this magical sight. He didn't question why Fifi was wearing a blindfold, why he was disregarding the devious smirk on his double's face, and also not questioning why there was now a funny ringing in his ears.

The other Hamton and Fifi started to fade like vapor, but the ringing persisted. And then, to his confusion, Hamton heard his own voice, though neither he nor his other's mouth, spoke it.

 _"Hi, this is Hamton Pig. I'm not here at the moment-"_

Hamton fell off the couch. He shot up from the carpet and glanced in every direction. He was back in the living room, the TV still on, and Furrball was nowhere in sight. There came a flushing sound from down the hall; Furrball must've had gone to the bathroom.

But what had made that ringing sound, Hamton thought.

Turning, Hamton heard a loud beep. It was the answering machine. Quickly, he rushed towards it just in time to hear the message play out.

" _Hey, Hamton. It's Babs. I hope you had fun on your date last night. Anyway, I know you just cleaned here, but can you by any chance come over today and clean again? With all my siblings, it's a miracle if my home stays clean for a day, let alone two. My Mom can't do it because she's taking my brothers and sisters out to visit my Dad for the day. So . . . yeah, can you come around Noon? My mom would really appreciate it, Hamton. Call back and let me know as soon as you can, 'kay? Bye."_

The instant this message ended, Furrball appeared around the corner and meowed in a questioning way.

"Babs," Hamton replied. "She wants me to clean again, says her siblings have made quite a mess."

He grabbed the receiver and started dialing.

"I guess I can go," he said. "I don't have any jobs planned until Tuesday with Mary and Sneezer. Maybe a job will take my mind off things."

 _And_ , Hamton added as an after-thought, _I can ask Babs about Fifi and whether she thinks I was an idiot for running away like I did. Not looking forward to that, but still. . . ._

Hamton pressed the phone to his ear and heard the dial tone. Babs answered after only one ring.

* * *

Once Hamton confirmed he would be coming to clean at Noon, he and Furrball spent the rest of the morning relaxing by flipping through TV shows and playing a quick game of Monotony (a rather misnomed game relabeled to sound like another game so as to avoid Copyright Infringement).

However, as the morning drawled on, Hamton couldn't help but notice peculiarities in Furrball's behavior.

As they watched TV on the couch, Furrball seemed to be giving concerned glances out of the corner of his eyes. At first, Hamton thought this was out of sympathy due to how disastrously he had botched up his date with Fifi. During the board game, however, Furrball seemed more concerned with what time it was rather than whether he was going to lose a piece of property and not collect two hundred in game dollars. His eyes kept darting to the clock every five minutes; it was almost as though he had a chronic twitch.

"Furrball, are you all right?" asked Hamton, shaking the dice in his hand.

Furrball turned quickly away from the clock and gave a fast nod and smile, though Hamton could've sworn there was something like unease in Furrball's expression.

At around 11:00, Hamton decided to have lunch early. When he opened the pantry and fridge, he found that he was, once again, running low on food. He made a mental note to stop at the grocery store after cleaning at Babs'.

Furrball didn't complain at all about the small lunch of grilled cheese, baby carrots, and milk. This was something Hamton liked about Furrball: he was never picky when it came to food.

"Sorry I don't have any tomato soup," said Hamton, crunching on a carrot. "It would go so much better with grilled cheese than carrots, but hey, at least they're filling, right?"

Furrball nodded and continued chewing unusually fast.

Hamton frowned at this. "Furrball, are you sure nothing's wrong?"

His mouth full of milk, Furrball froze and looked at Hamton as though had he just asked him what he was afraid to hear.

Swallowing, he coughed a little and started to meow.

"You're worried?" said Hamton, raising an eyebrow. "About what?'

He meowed something and pointed at his arm.

"My bite wound?" asked Hamton, and he turned to look at the place where Monty's piranha had bitten him yesterday. It was still red, but looked considerably better. "It's . . . uh . . . fine. Thanks for . . . asking."

Hamton went back to eating with the sneaking suspicion that there was something else on Furrball's mind besides a healed bite mark.

No sooner had lunch ended, Furrball abruptly announced that the wanted to go out for a walk, saying he needed the fresh air. Hamton, thinking the fresh air would do good to whatever was bothering Furrball, waved goodbye and told him to meet at the Acme Grocery Stores around 2:00 so they could pick up some food. Furrball nodded to this and set out the door, right in the middle of Hamton saying, "See you later."

Around 11:45, Hamton packed his cleaning supplies into his Acme Jumbo-Storage duffel bag, donned his winter coat, and headed out.

It was a partly cloudy day. The air was crisp and there was a chilly breeze, which made Hamton keep switching hands while carrying his duffel bag while the other hid in his coat pocket to give it some momentary relief from the cold wind.

The snow that had fallen yesterday had covered the neighborhood in about an inch of fluffy white. When the wind blew, dustings would fly up and blow across the street, off house roofs, and sometimes into Hamton's face, adding to the discomfort already in his numbing hands.

When he arrived outside the forest, Hamton expected the grounds to be slightly covered in snow. Indeed, the surrounding tree branches were coated in a new layer of the white fluff, and the snow resting at the trunks was slightly more elevated than it had been two days ago when Hamton cleaned for Babs on Friday.

The trail which lay between the trees, however, was oddly flat. There were several pairs of footprints on the path leading into the forest and none of them seemed to resemble the familiar shape of a rabbit's. As he walked, Hamton tried to examine some of the prints every time he happened across a patch of sunlight gleaming through the bare treetops, but the trail had been treaded on so much it was impossible to make out any clear distinction. Shrugging his shoulders, Hamton imagined they must've been caused by forest animals, and surely Buster and Babs weren't the only ones who came in and out of the Acme Forest.

Hamton reached Babs' glade and saw that her rabbit hole had been recently cleared of snow. He took a moment to rub his numb hand with his pocketed warm one. Then he opened the hole's hatch, closed it as he climbed down the ladder, descended into the earthly tunnel, and knocked on the underground door.

There came a very distant, "Come in!" and Hamton opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it.

Placing his duffel bag down on the ground, Hamton opened his mouth to say "Hello" but stopped suddenly and looked around the entrance to the rabbit burrow. There was nobody there.

"Babs?" Hamton called, eyeing the place, his eyes falling onto a few shriveled-looking roots which hung from the ceiling like dried plants.

"In here, Hamton!" Babs called a few rooms away.

Hamton picked up his bag and walked farther in, glancing around to find what exactly Babs wanted him to clean, but from the looks of it, everything around him was spotless.

 _Maybe she wants me to clean a bedroom. . . ._ he thought, feeling rather puzzled.

Rounding a corner, Hamton managed to say, "Hi, Babs. How are —" before he saw that it wasn't Babs who stood in front of him.

It was Furrball. He was standing outside a doorway, looking quite calm, his hands behind his back.

Baffled, Hamton goggled him for a moment, wondering what on earth was going on, but before he could ask, Furrball walked off into the next room.

"Furrball?" said Hamton, moving forward. "What are . . . you . . . ?"

Again, Hamton fell silent. He had just entered the very same living room he had cleaned two days ago. And the fact that it was still clean was not what startled Hamton.

Furrball walked over to stand beside the couch. Babs was sitting there along with Buster, and beside the couch in the recliner sat Plucky, and beside him, floating in midair, her legs and webbed orange feet crossed, was Shirley.

Hamton looked from one friend to the next. They were all glancing at him, and it wasn't in anger or sadness or happiness, no . . .

"Good afternoon, Hamton," said Buster, his tone in its usual calm.

"Hey . . . guys . . .," said Hamton, slowly and curiously. He didn't like the way his friends were looking at him as though he were someone extremely unfortunate. "Uh . . . what's everyone doing here, Babs?"

"We need to talk with you, Hamton," she said gently, as though she were addressing someone very sick.

Again, Hamton felt that unwelcome tingle in the pit of his stomach, and for whatever reason, he knew he didn't want to hear what his friends had to say.

"Uh . . . Babs," he said, cooking up an excuse, "can't it wait until after — ?"

"I don't have anything that needs cleaning, Hamton," said Babs, looking apologetic.

Hamton stared. "You . . . you don't need me to . . . then, why did — ?"

"Hamton," Buster interrupted, sounding grave, "please sit down. We need to talk." He motioned to a cushioned chair standing in the middle of the room so that the couch and recliner faced it a few feet apart.

"W-Why?" asked Hamton, putting down his duffel bag and feeling annoyed. "What's going on here?"

"Like, isn't it crystal clear?" asked Shirley, hovering beside Plucky at the recliner. "This in an intervention. _Your_ intervention."

The word went through Hamton like a punch in the gut. He stared dumbstruck at his five friends.

"Hamton?" Babs asked gently, and she nudged her head in the direction to the chair. "Please, sit down."

He looked at it, then back at the doorway he was standing in. For a moment he seriously considered turning around and ditching them so he could vent out his irritation at the fact that Babs had lied to him. But then he looked back at his friends and could tell that, whatever was going on, they were all genuinely worried about him, and knew it would be insensitive to desert them.

With a deep sigh, deciding it would at least be polite to hear what they had to say, Hamton stepped forward half-heartedly and sat down in the cushioned chair with five sets of eyes pointing his way.

For a while, nobody spoke, but merely took turns to stare at one another. For Hamton, it was like waiting for something unpleasant to leap out, like some nightmarish jack-in-the-box.

Perhaps this feeling was visible in his expression, because Buster said, "Hamton, don't be so nervous. We're not doing this because we're angry or anything like that."

But the word 'angry' ignited a fiery, aggressive little spark in Hamton's brain. Not towards his friends, but to himself.

"So . . . I guess you guys know," he said looking down, wanting more than anything to vanish into thin air.

"Know what, Hamton?" asked Plucky, and the fact that his voice sounded unusually gentle only made Hamton feel worse.

"About my huge screw-up last night," Hamton answered. He looked mournfully up at Furrball. "Did you tell them?"

"No, Furrball didn't tell any of us anything, Hamton," said Babs. "We already know."

"What?" asked Hamton, startled. "How do you all — ?"

"Me and Shirley talked with Fifi on the phone last night," Babs explained. "We wanted to know how the date went."

Here it was, Hamton thought: the moment before the explosion. Babs was going to tell him what Fifi thought of him.

"And?" he asked with dread, his throat tight and his stomach full of lead.

Babs smiled warmly.

"She said she had a wonderful time with you."

Hamton's mouth fell open. "What?"

"Like, don't look so shocked, Hamton," said Shirley, still levitating in midair beside the recliner. "Fifi talked with a lot of gusto and some junk. She sounded really happy when she —"

"Did she, by any chance, mention what I did at the end of our date?" Hamton quickly cut across her.

At this, Shirley and Babs' smiles dropped a little, but didn't totally disappear.

"Well. . ." said Babs. "Yeah . . . she did mention —"

"How I ran from her like a wimp after I . . . I . . ." Hamton couldn't say it. The fact that he was discussing this in front of his friends was almost as worse as it happening all over again.

"After you told Fifi that you think she's the most wonderful girl you know?" Babs finished with a raised eyebrow.

Hamton looked at Babs so rigidly he might've turned to stone. Fifi had remembered it word for word. . . .

He looked away from everyone defiantly, hardly able to breathe, feeling more humiliated than he ever had been in his life.

"Hamton," said Babs gently, "we're not trying to — "

"I messed up, all right!" he shouted. "I didn't mean to say that, it just sort of . . .! Fifi hugged me and . . . and she said I was sweet—"

"Hamton."

"And my mind just sort of . . . I don't know! It just—"

"Hamton."

"— sort of went off on its own. And without thinking, I ran and —"

"HAMTON!"

He froze, wide-eyed. All five of his friends had shouted at once. Even Furrball's voice came out clear.

"Hamton," said Buster calmly, "we didn't call you here to criticize you. This has nothing to do with what happened on your date last night."

Hamton goggled at him, now totally bewildered.

"Then what do you guys want to talk about?" he asked loudly.

A moment went by, and finally, Buster answered. "Fifi's gift."

The others nodded; Furrball let out a low meow.

Hamton stared at them. This was the very last thing he had expected to hear. "What about it?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, I don't know, let's see," said Plucky, in the tone someone would use while pointing out the difference between up and down. "One, you're working yourself dog-tired. I mean, you must've cleaned like half of Acme Acres by now. I _still_ smell the disinfectant in here," he said, pointing around the living room. "Two, you're spending all your time thinking about buying this perfume even though the price is totally outrageous, even by cartoon standards. And three," Plucky leaned forward in the recliner, "you're still going about this even though it's costing you!"

Hamton stared opened-mouthed. "What do you mean it's costing me?"

"Have you already forgotten about yesterday?" Buster asked, his arms crossed. "About your little job with Monty? You know, the one you took on the very same day you had a date with 'the most wonderful girl you know'?"

Buster's tone had become assertive, his eyebrows low and his face hardened. This irritant look was matched by the others, none approving of Hamton's foolish actions.

"My . . . _that's_ what this is about?" asked Hamton, and he too felt annoyed. He turned to Babs, glaring. " _That's_ why you lied and asked me to come down here?"

"Yes," she replied bluntly. "That's why. And Hamton, please don't accuse me of lying when _you_ lied to _us_."

" _What_?" he exclaimed indignantly, nearly leaping from the chair. "When did I — ?"

"You promised us, Hamton!" Babs shouted, throwing her arms down hard on the couch. "You promised that when you started doing these jobs you wouldn't do anything that would hurt yourself! But then, out of nowhere, you go and take a job request from Montana Max! I mean, _Monty_ of all people?" Babs yelled shrilly, so much that Hamton flinched in alarm. "You risked being injured on the same day you had a date with Fifi! You're lucky none of your injuries were serious, Hamton! If Furrball hadn't been there to carry you home —"

"You told her?" Hamton asked, turning to glare at Furrball.

"No, _we_ told!" said Buster, and Plucky too raised his hand. "Yesterday, right after you and Fifi left the Dump, the five of us all got together, talked, and planned this little sit-down with you."

Hamton frowned irritably back at Furrball. So this is why he was acting so peculiar back at home, giving him odd looks and glancing at the clock: he wanted to get here in time for the intervention.

Finding this enough justification to be angry, Hamton snapped, "So, what? You guys all got together so you can tell me you think I'm being stupid?"

"No!" said Buster, and though his voice was loud, he no longer sounded angry. "Even though your job yesterday morning certainly warrants it, none of us think you're stupid nor will we _ever_ think that. Hamton, we're your friends, and as friends, it's our job to keep each other in the know-how because we all care! That's why we called you here today: because we care about you. I know what you're going to say," he said swiftly, just as Hamton was about to retort, "that it's none of our business what you decide to do, and normally, with most of what you've been doing, I'd agree. But seeing as how you got hurt from your job at Monty's, it _is_ our business — again, because we're your friends!"

Hamton said nothing, turning from one to the next, all staring at him with both compassion and seriousness. He honestly didn't know what to feel. Sitting in this chair, surrounded by his friends, he was stuck with a mixture of annoyance, gratefulness, and guilt — a very confusing mix indeed.

"Hamton . . ." said Babs, and her voice was gentle again. "We know how much you want Fifi to like you, but you can't do it by hurting yourself. Fifi wouldn't like it if she knew you got hurt trying to impress her. Think of how she'd react."

"I don't know . . ." said Plucky, scratching his chin. "There are a lot of movies where the guy has to do a lot of dangerous, stupid things before the girl will even look in his general direc -" but he stopped speaking at the heated glares his friends gave.

"Be that as it may," said Buster, frowning in annoyance at Plucky's comment, "Fifi's not that kind of girl. Hamton, I'm sorry, but you're going too far with this whole perfume thing."

"So what _are_ you guys saying?" Hamton asked, his arms crossed. "That I should quit and try and get her something else?"

"Like, what we're saying," said Shirley, floating down to sit on the recliner's arm, "is that you mustn't lose sight of what's important here. As fancy as that perfume may be, it's not what will show Fifi how you feel."

Hamton stared blankly at her.

"What she means," Babs clarified, "is that the perfume isn't going to win Fifi's affection."

"But that's what she wants!" Hamton exclaimed. "You guys remember how she looked at it when we went to the Mall, how much she adored it." Hamton certainly remembered. That longing look in Fifi's eye, the way she 'Le sighed...'. What Hamton would give to see her do that while looking at him. . . .

"Hamton," said Buster bluntly. "It's _just_ perfume."

"It's a perfume she likes!" Hamton retorted. "And I'm close to getting it! There's still a full week left! You guys, I know I can make it in time."

"We hate to disagree," said Babs regretfully.

"Oh, what now?" Hamton asked dully.

"Hamton, it's like you said, there's only one week left 'til the holidays are here. People are going to be more busy than usual and finishing up their shopping and holiday planning. They aren't going to have much money to spare."

Hamton could think of nothing to say to this. As much as he would've liked to flat out disagree, he had a strong feeling that Babs was right. The last week before the holidays was always the busiest — all the people running through stores, digging in their pockets to scrape up the last bits of cash they can manage, having little time for much else as they plan their Christmases, Hannakkas, and whatever else.

"I can manage it, though," he said, more to himself than his friends. "I'm almost there..."

"Hamton, pal . . ." said Plucky.

"You don't need that perfume to let Fifi know how you feel," said Babs. "Just talk to her and —"

"I already have, in case you've forgotten!" Hamton yelled, his hands clenched tight. "And when I finally did manage to tell her — by accident, mind you — I fell apart and ran for it!"

That horrible moment of cowardice rushed through Hamton again, and he pressed his clawing hands to his face. "Why did I have to run?" he asked through his hands.

"Hamton, Fifi isn't mad at you!" said Babs earnestly. "Me and Shirley talked to her, remember? Yeah, she was a little taken aback by how shocked you looked before you ran, but she's not disgusted with you. She had a great time with you yesterday, _and_ " she added on a more prominent note, "she also told us how you don't mind her smell."

Babs smiled warmly. "Hamton, it is impossible for me to describe how happy that made Fifi. She said it was the nicest thing anyone's ever told her."

Lowering his hands, Hamton saw that his friends all looked impressed with him.

"You really don't mind her smell?" asked Plucky, amazed. "Wow! If that's the case, Fifi probably won't find a better match even if she lived to a billion!"

"Like, totally agree!" complimented Shirley, floating a few inches above the recliner's arm. "That's a sentence Fifi's wanted to hear since Episode One!"

Babs, smiling at her friends, turned back and said, "See, Hamton?"

"Yeah, except I still messed up by running away like a rat with its tail on fire," he said regardless, angry with himself. "I mean, how can I let her know how I feel if I can't even pay compliments without getting cold feet?"

"You just need to get some thicker bandages," Plucky said smirking.

A rim shot sounded. Nobody laughed.

Plucky turned to the readers. "Oh, come on! That joke was totally relevant!"

"You just need to stay confident, Hamton" said Buster, sounding as though this were a perfectly normal problem. "If you want, me and Babsy can teach you a thing or two." He took his girlfriend's hand in his. "I mean, we've been together for a whole year now, so we kind of know what it means to be a couple. We actually did the same thing for Plucky and Shirley."

"Shirley didn't need that much advice," said Babs, looking over at the two waterfowl. "Plucky, on the other hand. . . ."

"Hey!" he said, jumping up in the recliner. "Are we here to discuss my love life or Hamton's?"

"Ah, chill, Plucky," said Shirley with a light laugh. "It's just an example. Besides, you're, like, so much better now than you were before. At least, _I_ think so."

Plucky didn't respond, but slunk back into his chair, taking Shirley's hand in his and rolling his eyes off to the side and smirking.

"You guys. . .," said Hamton, feeling thoroughly strained. "Look, I appreciate that you all care, and I'm really sorry that I went and got myself hurt the other day. I didn't mean to make any of you worry or angry, but . . . " He let out a sigh and closed his eyes. "I'm going to keep going."

At once, he opened his eyes and held up his hands. All his friends were about to protest.

"Just hear me out!" he said as calmly as he could. "I know that what I'm doing is a bit much. Heck, it's a LOT much. I know that I'm willing to spend more than I usually do for just one person, and again I'm _really_ sorry for making you all worried and for putting myself through all that stuff at Monty's. I guess I just wasn't thinking clearly the time."

"You can say that again," said Plucky dryly. Hamton let out a quiet laugh, while the others shot him looks of disproval. "Well, he did! Guys, I'm just speaking what's on my mind, and seeing that this is an intervention — though a pretty lame one — I'd like to think honesty is the best policy here." Plucky faltered and blinked, as though he had just been slapped. "Wow . . . never thought I'd say that."

"You can say _that_ again," said Babs dryly. "But Hamton," she turned back to him, "what will Fifi think when you give her a gift like Du Coeur?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

"What do I mean?" Babs repeated incredulously. "Hamton, it's over a thousand dollars! She'll be surprised, that's for sure, but it might not be in the way you hope."

"But it's what she —"

"We know!" said Babs loudly, silencing Hamton who looked stunned. "What I'm saying is that Fifi might not react the way you're hoping she will. If Buster ever gave something like to me — "

"You'd scream to high heaven," said Buster, "plant about a hundred kisses on me, and probably put on a dramatic voice, saying something along the lines of 'you're too good to me'."

Babs flushed. "Well . . . yeah . . ." she said shyly, before shaking back to seriousness. "But after I calm down from the disbelief, I'd realize that a gift like that would've taken a lot of sacrifice and struggle. Hamton, Fifi doesn't want you to go to all that trouble just for her."

"I kind of already am," he said with a shrug. "What do you guys think I've been doing since December 1st?"

Babs sighed and shook his head. "Hamton . . . look. The point we're trying to get across to you is that the perfume you're working so hard to buy shouldn't be seen as the way to Fifi's heart. You don't care at all about the perfume, you just want Fifi to like you! I mean, what if it's a smell Fifi hates? If you really want Fifi's affection, you have to show it in your own way and not through an expensive trinket."

"But that's what I'm _trying_ to do!" Hamton yelled, feeling cornered and impatient. "I'm doing all this so that Fifi _will_ like me! I mean . . . wouldn't the fact that I'm giving her something so expensive prove how I feel? Wouldn't it. . ." And in that moment when his voice broke, Hamton suddenly felt diminished, less significant. "Wouldn't it prove to her that I care? That I don't have to be a . . . a 'skunk-hunk', as she calls them?"

Hamton's throat started to tighten. His mind and heart seemed drained and those horrible daydreams he had of Fifi with that hulking skunk reared its ugly head, sending a cold, numbing sensation which made him feel sick.

Hamton turned away to face the wall. He didn't want anyone to look at him. The silence in the room was suffocating, unbearable.

A few moments passed when, unexpectedly, someone touched his shoulder.

Hamton turned. It was Furrball, and he was gazing at him with such a pitying look, it was painful.

And even worse, all his friends had approached him, each looking sympathetic.

"Hamton. . ." Babs said sympathetically. "There's nothing wrong with the way you are."

"It's _who_ you are that matters most," said Buster, and his voice too was unnaturally soft. "It's _that_ Hamton that's our friend, it's _that_ Hamton that Fifi —"

"I have to go!" said Hamton, his voice cracking, and he pushed passed them towards the door.

"Hamton!" Babs called after her retreating friend. "Hamton, wait!"

"You know my choice!" he shouted. "I thank you guys for your concerns! Believe me, I do! But I'm too close! And I'm not stopping now!"

And without bothering to try and stop him, the five friends stood there in the living room, watching where Hamton had walked out and hearing the burrow's door open and slam shut.

Buster pressed his hand to his forehead and let out a sigh. "Well, guys, we tried."

Furrball let out a low, sad meow.

"I guess we just have to accept the fact that Hamton really is determined to see this to the end," said Babs. "I just hope it doesn't end too badly."

"It's, like, kind of inspiring," said Shirley with shrug. Everyone looked at her. "Well, he's going through hoops and hurdles to try and make Fifi happy. I can see a lot of good Karma in it for him."

"Well, _I_ think he's a few steps away from being as crazy as Gogo," said Plucky. "I mean, didn't he hear us? Doesn't he know that what he's doing is too much?"

"Of course he heard us, Plucky," said Buster impatiently. "Hamton knows how crazy this all is. But . . . " he said with a sigh, "his feelings for Fifi are much more important than anything else on his mind."

Plucky let out a loud groan. "This is what I don't get about relationships!" He began to pace around the room in a very stern, annoyed manner. "People always go to such trouble to show their feelings! I mean, you'd think Hamton would know better. All he has to do is go up to Fifi and say, 'Hey, Doll, how about you and I catch tickets to the smoochin' train!' Choo-Choo!" he said in a weak impersonation of a train, and on the part where one would say "choo-choo", he, instead, made two kissing noises.

Buster, Babs, Shirley, and Furrball stared with deadpanned expressions.

"Okay, first of all," said Babs, bluntly, "in no universe would Hamton _ever_ call Fifi 'Doll'. Second, what Hamton's going through right now is very confusing and _very_ emotionally straining. The idea of him going up and just telling Fifi how he feels is enough to make anyone want to throw up or run and avoid potential embarrassment. It'd probably be easier to split an anvil with a toothpick.'"

"Or as easy as Plucky coming out the better with an anvil," Buster added, to which everyone but Plucky laughed.

"Very funny," he said, glaring. "But seriously, guys, don't we all agree that Hamton's going too far with this? Wasn't that the whole point of this intervention?"

"Like, of course it was, Plucky," said Shirley. "We've said so about three times. But we have to see this from Hamton's point of view."

"You think so?" he asked, an eyebrow raised. "You want to be obsessed over trying to buy some girly perfume?"

Babs let out a loud growl.

"You are so clueless sometimes!" she shouted. "Plucky, didn't you hear a word I said? All these jobs Hamton's doing, all the money he's so desperate to raise in time for Christmas — he's not doing it for the perfume! It was never aboutthe perfume! It's about what he hopes the perfume will give him! Fifi's the same way!" Babs walked up to her green-feathered friend. "Why do you think girls wear perfume, Plucky? Because it helps attract boys to them!"

"But she doesn't even know what it smells like!" Plucky argued. "For all we know, Hamton might end up giving Fifi something that smells like rotting feet!"

"It doesn't matter!" said Babs, stomping her foot down. "For a girl like Fifi, she couldn't care less how good or how terrible something smells, because she sadly lives with the fact that _she_ smells bad! Fifi's been looking for a boyfriend ever since our first day on _Tiny Toons_ , and she's had _nothing_ but bad luck! Any skunk she's ever met has either been taken or is about as rotten as their own smell! She is lonely and striving for someone to care about her, but she doesn't think anyone _but_ a skunk would ever want to be with her!

"And Hamton . . ." Babs calmed down and sighed. "Well . . . we all know how Hamton feels for her. Ever since Prom he's been head over heels for Fifi, and it's taken him over a year since our show ended to try and build up the courage to admit it. But he's afraid Fifi won't accept his affection unless he does something so amazing that she'll overlook the fact that he's not a skunk. For Hamton and Fifi, that bottle of Du Coeur is the key to having the thing they both want this Christmas, and it's not something any of us can buy for them."

Shirley nodded with understanding. Buster, Plucky, and Furrball, however, looked dumbfounded.

"How is it that you can understand all that?" said Plucky, wide-eyed and sounding as though Babs had just discovered the secret to immortality.

"I'm a girl," Babs said simply. "I understand how girls think — and boys too sometimes. Of course, paying attention and learning from past experience also helps."

Buster let out a sigh. "Well . . . I guess there's only one thing for us to do now."

The four turned to him.

"If Hamton's really serious about seeing this to the end, then as his friends we should support him."

They all shared a look.

"You're right, Babsy," he said, "we can't buy Hamton or Fifi the thing they both want most this Christmas, but we _can_ help lead them to it."

"What?" Plucky said, sounding curious. "'Lead them to it?' You mean, like, charting a map for Hamton? What, are we going to lead him to buried treasure?"

Furrball meowed something that sounded like a price number.

"Under five-hundred dollars? He's that close? Really?" asked Shirley, sounding impressed. "Well, then . . . Hamton might still have a chance at snatching that Du Coeur."

Babs pounded her fist into her palm with determination. "We'll think of some way to help. If Hamton can raise over a thousand dollars in two weeks, the five of us can certainly help him raise the rest of the money. We'll help Hamton out. Something tells me that'll be the best gift we can give Hamton this Christmas."

None of them needed to discuss this any further. As though the motion was unanimous, all five had made up their minds right then and there with a nod.

"Well," said Plucky, smirking. "I don't mean to brag, but it so happens that I already have a head start."

"What do you mean, Plucky?" asked Buster, frowning.

"Oh, you'll all see eventually," he answered with a chuckle. "So . . . what are _your_ guys' ideas to help my best buddy? And please, _please_ , for the love of Chuck Jones, don't let it have anything to do with anvils!"

 _$423 to go - 10 Days until Dec. 24th_

* * *

 **All comments are welcome, positive or constructive.**


	28. Words from the Heart and Loudspeaker

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995.**

* * *

 **Chapter 28**

 _Words from the Heart and Loudspeaker_

 _~Sunday, Dec. 14th~_

Hamton climbed out of Babs' rabbit hole and stormed away into the forest, kicking snow violently and grumbling at his friends' lack of encouragement. However, by the time he got home, out of breath and his feet quite cold, he didn't know what to think or how he should feel.

Sulking down on the couch, all alone in his house, Hamton contemplated his friends' words and his own situation. He couldn't deny that his friends had raised some very good points. Fifi probably would be more shocked than delighted to learn that Hamton went to all this work to buy her something so expensive. She may even end up feeling angry at his endeavors.

This scenario, coupled with the fact that Hamton had gotten angry with his friends while they tried to express their concern, made him feel worse.

Buster and Babs. . . . Plucky and Shirley. . . . And Furrball . . . . They were his closest and dearest friends and they all cared enough to plan an intervention and say, face to face, what he needed to hear. They were upset, sure, but Hamton clearly remembered them speaking more out of concern than annoyance.

On the other hand, Hamton reminded himself how close he was now. True, his exertion into Monty's mansion was a dangerous and stupid move on his part — there was no disagreeing there — but it still advanced him towards his goal tremendously. He came closer to Fifi's present in one day than he had done all month, and Shirley's little charm to keep a bottle of Du Coeur perfume stored away in Shear's Department Store was still in effect. Surely, he could procure the rest of the money before Dec. 23rd when the charm would break — surely, he could.

 _And if you can't?_ came an intrusive thought.

Hamton sat up straight on the couch. That little daydream he had of Fifi and the buff male skunk reared its ugly head again. It was nowhere near as heartbreaking as it had been that morning, but it still weighed quite heavily on Hamton's heart.

With a sigh, he stared down at the floor. He knew he couldn't change into a skunk, nor would he want to. He was happy and proud to be a pig, but he would give everything he owned to be _where_ that Skunk-Hunk had been in his dream, to have his arm around — as he, Hamton, said the night before — the most wonderful girl he knew.

He sighed yet again and eased back on the couch, wondering why everything good and wonderful had to be so complicated.

Around an hour later, Furrball arrived home while rubbing his blue paws awkwardly. He approached Hamton hesitantly as though he did him a great offense and would soon be chucked from the house as punishment. To Hamton's surprise, Furrball's eyes looked slightly wet, and knew it had nothing to do with the cold weather outside.

"Hey, Furrball," he said gently. He walked up and placed his hands on the blue cat's shoulders. "I'm not angry. I know you and the others were only trying to help me, and I am thankful. I really am."

Furrball still looked apologetic, but smiled weakly, clearly glad that Hamton wasn't angry anymore.

"Look," said Hamton, taking his hands off Furrball's shoulders. "I'm still going to try and raise the rest of the money for Fifi's gift. But," he added with seriousness, "I promise I won't do anything else that dangerous again. You guys were right, I must've been crazy to take a job from Monty."

Smirking lightly, Furrball shrugged and meowed.

"True," Hamton said, chuckling. "His pay did help me a lot, but I'll keep it safe and simple from now on."

Furrball nodded in agreement.

"Well . . ." said Hamton, feeling considerably better. "Seeing as we don't have any jobs today, how about we just hang out?"

This idea must've been what Furrball secretly had in mind, for after hanging up his coat, he happily hopped right onto the couch, where Hamton joined after.

The rest of the afternoon passed by with far greater ease. Hamton and Furrball picked up groceries after eating a late lunch, and, with their pantry and fridge full and nothing else to do, the two decided they may as well study for their upcoming Winter Exams this coming Friday. This proved to be both entertaining as well as awkward.

Wildtakes brought about an array of hilarious faces and uncomfortable reactions, such as the Shrunken Sour Pout and the Fur-on-End Cat Shriek (which Furrball was especially good at).

Wisecracks didn't go so well for Furrball due to the fact that he usually only spoke in meows. Hamton, like his other friends, knew perfectly well what Furrball was saying, but to any other person not fluent in Cartoon-Catish, it would just be kitty talk.

Dog Teasing was a no brainer — just be creative on how to best tease a sleeping hound and get away in time before he bites you.

Hamton and Furrball had a lot of fun with Cartoon Logic, talking over the many hilarious theories chalked up by famous cartoonists — like the occasional suspension of gravity, the ability to persuade villains in the height of tension, and the miraculously dangerous homing ability of anvils, pianos, and other falling objects.

Calculations, being the most tedious and mentally exhausting of all school subjects, was saved for last. Both Hamton and Furrball agreed they needed practice, but since Granny's problems were so unpredictably difficult to imagine in the first place, they may as well have drawn answers from out of a hat.

All other subjects, Outwitting, Physical Comedy, Spotlight Stealing, Mouse/Bird Chasing, and Destruction all depended on the situation a Toon found themselves in, and so there was little Hamton and Furrball could do to prepare except go over the notes they had collected over the past four months.

As for Exploding Cakes, all Hamton and Furrball had to do was bake a cake with enough kablooie to impress Yosemite Sam — that alone would be challenging.

Before going to bed that night, Hamton and Furrball counted up the money they had raised so far. Adding Monty's five crispy, soot-covered one-hundreds to the amount, the total came to $1077. The fact that Hamton was in the presence of this much money was almost worthy of its own episode on _Tiny Toons_ (if it was still on the air). In all, Hamton couldn't help but feel hopeful. Neither, it seemed, could Furrball, who gave Hamton an encouraging pat on the shoulder before heading to the living room and lying down on his warm, comfy couch. Hamton followed lead shortly after, happy to put this long, tiring week to rest.

* * *

 _(Monday, Dec.15th)_

Things started out smoothly enough when Monday morning arrived. Hamton was encouraged to raise the rest of the money and Furrball, seeing Hamton so spirited, was eager to offer his help however he could. And so, after a filling breakfast of over easy eggs on buttered toast, the two friends happily departed for school. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shinned brightly off the snow, but it was still cold enough that Hamton had to stuff his bare hands deep into his coat pockets.

When they reached the edge of the first city block, Hamton and Furrball stopped in surprise. Buster, Babs, Plucky, and Shirley were all standing there expectantly.

Hamton noticed a lag in their posture. They seemed sad about something.

"Guys?" said Hamton, he and Furrball walking up to them. "What's wrong?"

Buster stepped forward. "We want to apologize for yesterday, Hamton. The reason for the intervention was to try and help you. But," he looked down at the ground, and his blue rabbit ears drooped, "I'm afraid we might've went too far and touched on a personal subject. We're all very sorry."

Behind him, Babs, Plucky, and Shirley nodded gently. "Sorry," they all said in regret.

A twinge of guilt filled Hamton's stomach. Had they all felt this way since he ran out of them?

"Guys, it's okay," said Hamton, holding up his hands. "I'm not mad. For what it's worth, you guys were right in saying that I've been taking this all too far, especially with what happened at Monty's. If anything, _I'm_ the one who should be saying sorry. I did promise you guys I'd be careful, after all. But I won't let it happen again, I promise you all that. No more dangerous jobs."

When he finished, he was glad to see that the four of them looked considerably more cheerful.

"Come on, let's get to school," he said, his hands clenching in his coat pockets. "It's kind of cold out."

And with that, they all set off.

Fifi joined the group when they passed the Acme City Dump. Hamton's cheeks burned red at the sight of her by the entrance. She was wearing her favorite white scarf and looked as beautiful as she did on Saturday when she wore her green dress. It was the memory of this that made Hamton avert his gaze and instead look at some unremarkably hardened snow on the side of the road.

They continued to walk, Hamton making every effort not to look at Fifi — a task made difficult by the fact that he really wanted to apologize for running away at the end of their date, and because he wanted to try, however impossibly, to explain that 'you're the most wonderful girl I know' meant something _other_ than what it clearly meant.

And it didn't help that Babs started talking to her the moment they left the Dump.

"So, Fifi?" she said, sounding friendly. "How was your day yesterday? Do anything fun?"

"Ah, non," said Fifi. She sounded perfectly relaxed and content. "I just worked out a leettle bit at ze gym and zen wrote a letter to my parents, agreeing to see zem after ze party on Christmas Eve. Other zan zat, nothing much."

At that moment, Hamton's eyes moved from the street to Fifi, who was standing between Babs and Plucky. His eyes lingered for less than a second before shooting back the other way, because Fifi chose that very moment to glance in his direction. Her violet eyes — bright and lovely — were too much for Hamton to tolerate.

"Anywho," said Fifi, "what did you all do?"

This time, Hamton's eyes shot to look at his friends. For the briefest second, they were all taken aback, but calmed immediately after.

"Oh, nothing," said Buster casually. "Me and Babs just hanged together and talked."

"Like, me and Plucky did the same," said Shirley.

Furrball gave a few meows and patted Hamton's shoulder.

"Oh," said Fifi, totally convinced. "A simple Sunday for all. Zat is nice."

Hamton was still looking between each of his friends. Had they all planned what they would say if Fifi asked where they had been yesterday? Sure enough, while Fifi turned to look in the direction of school, Buster, Babs, Plucky, Shirley, and Furrball all, without moving their heads, glanced to Hamton and gave him a quick wink.

The thankfulness he felt for all of them was indescribable.

Fifi, who didn't notice the wink, kept her face forward. But again, her sight turned to rest directly on Hamton's, his cheeks going red again. Little did he know that his face wasn't the only one feeling unnaturally warm in the cold winter morning.

When Hamton and his friends entered the school hallways, his face still felt hot from all his blushing. He kept his gaze set on anyone and anything but Fifi, too nervous to face her as though she were some looming danger. The idea made Hamton feel sickened with himself.

The seven of them stopped at their lockers to get their books for Outwitting and Wisecracks. When Hamton closed his locker, he felt a light tapping on his side. Furrball was elbowing him.

The cat motioned his furry blue head off to the side with a few twitches. Hamton looked and saw that Furrball was pointing in Fifi's direction.

"What?" Hamton whispered.

Furrball gave a few short meows.

" _Talk to her_?" he asked quietly with surprise.

Furrball gave a curt nod. He looked quite serious.

Hamton looked back at Fifi, who was taking an unusually long time to read a paragraph in one of her books, disregarding that they had class in about five minutes.

Buster and the others all gave Hamton furtive nods too, and, without speaking a word, they rushed off for class, leaving Hamton and Fifi alone as the only students left in the hall.

Fifi, still staring down at her book, didn't appear to notice the departure of her friends, though Hamton thought her posture had become a little too stiff to pass as fully unaware.

Taking a deep breath, knowing his friends would ask him about it later, Hamton took a step toward Fifi, and suddenly his brain seemed to travel back in time to last Saturday, to when she had hugged him. . . .

"H-Hi, Fifi," said Hamton hesitantly, his throat already dry.

Without looking even slightly surprised to see him standing there alone, Fifi closed her book, held it flat to her chest, and turned. "Bonjour, Hamton."

She sounded as timid as Hamton felt, and for a while they just looked at each other awkwardly.

The hall was completely silent now. Most of the footsteps had come to rest inside the many classrooms. Hamton and Fifi turned to look off to the side, then turned back to face each other again. Deciding that one of them should say something, Hamton and Fifi both said, "Good Sunday?"

They paused, then laughed lightly at the coincidence.

"Yeah. . . ." they both said again in unison.

"Anyway," said Hamton, clearing his throat, though this didn't seem to help at all. He still found it uncomfortably tight. "Fifi, I . . ." He sighed. There really was no easy way to say this, was there? "Fifi, I'm sorry for running away on Sat— "

"Non, Hamton," said Fifi, shaking her head, holding up a hand in peace. "I am not disgusted with you. I had a wonderful time with you, I truly did. If anything, _I_ should be sorry."

Hamton gaped at her. " _You_? What for?"

"For one, being a skunk," she said mournfully, her gaze falling, "and cutting our time together short."

Hamton blinked. This was the very last thing he expected to hear.

"Don't beat yourself up for that!" he said firmly, determined not to have Fifi be the one to feel as though she did something wrong. "Fifi, you were thinking of something memorable and beautiful. What happened after was a total accident. It's those park goers' fault that they let a little smell ruin their good time."

Fifi lifted her head, and gave a light, bemused chuckle. "It was more zan just a leettle smell, Hamton."

"So?" he said stubbornly. "There's no need for you to apologize for being who you are. You're a wonderful skunk and should be proud of that. How could you think I'd be mad at you? Yeah, our time at the park was short, but it was totally worth it." Remembering back to their time on the bench beside the 'Parson Brown' snowman, Hamton smirked. "I liked the part about your dad surprising your mom with a kiss."

Fifi gave a soft, sweet smile, "Oui. It took a while, but he finally built up ze courage, and zen . . . oh, my mother's face!" Fifi giggled, but at these words, Hamton's mind reeled back and remembered the reason he was here.

"Anyway. . ." said Hamton, staring off to the side, his voice now subdued. "Fifi . . . I'm really sorry for running away like that. I . . ." The true answer was, 'I was terrified and out of my mind', but instead, Hamton said, "I didn't mean it."

Hamton looked back up at Fifi, and to his surprise, Fifi looked suddenly alarmed.

"You . . . you did not mean what?" she said, aghast and staring at Hamton with wide eyes.

Hamton blinked. "I didn't mean to run away from you."

At this, Fifi's expression calmed considerably. "Oh, thank goodness," she said.

"Fifi, what did you think I meant?" Hamton asked, an eyebrow raised.

Fifi looked back into Hamton's eyes, so that his stomach squirmed a little. "I . . . I thought you meant about what you said. About me. . . ."

Hamton's heart might have turned to lead and dropped into his gut.

"Oh. . . "

And here it was. They had reached the subject Hamton had almost succeeded in dodging.

"About that. . . ." He had not a clue what to say to her, of how he could explain. Fifi was looking at him expectantly, her book clutched to her fuzzy white belly.

His voice strained, his breath short, Hamton knew there was only one thing he could say: the truth.

"I meant it," he said as calmly as he could, looking her in the face. Then, with all the courage he could muster, he said, "You really are the most wonderful girl I know, Fifi. The best I ever knew."

Silence; the world may very well have stopped moving. Hamton couldn't breathe at all now, as though he were awaiting a punch that was slowly but surely heading his way.

Fifi looked at him for a moment, not saying anything. Then the sides of her lips gently rose.

"And I meant what I said," she said. "Hamton . . . you really are ze sweetest boy I have ever met."

Her voice was like a balmy breath of summer wind. Heat flooded through Hamton's chest and he too was smiling without being able to control it (or wanting to).

For a brief, wonderful moment, all that existed was the two of them, alone in this quiet hall. Hamton could've stood there all day, Fifi gazing back at him.

But then the silence was wrenched apart as the school bell rang, abruptly waking Hamton and Fifi from their shared daydream.

"Oh, no!" shouted Hamton. "We're late!"

"Sacré bleu!" Fifi slammed her locker shut and, without a word to each other, both she and Hamton rushed to Outwitting, which was thankfully only a few doors down the hall.

Professor Road Runner wasn't angry with their two-second tardiness and, as usual, just 'Meeped' for them to take their seats. They did so. When Hamton sat down next to Furrball, he saw that his friends were all giving him amused looks.

When all eyes returned forward, Professor Road Runner opened his beak to start his lesson. But what exactly he was going to say was cut off as he paused abruptly and looked up to the intercom speaker which had given off a loud buzz.

"What's up, Acme Loo?" came the signature voice of Principal Bugs Bunny. "Today is Monday, December 15th, and I'm here with some noteworthy news." He cleared his throat; there came the sound of a carrot being munched. "First and foremost, the end of the semester is this Friday and, as such, the Winter C.E.s — that is, the Acme Loo Cartoon Examinations — will take place Friday morning at 8:00 sharp. Though it's not normally in a Toon's nature to be very serious, I believe now is the time to make a rare exception. I'd like you all to please stop what you're currently doing, listen closely, and take these next words to heart."

There was a pause, a pause in which the whole, entire school seemed to have gone still. Then Bugs continued.

"These examinations will measure everything you've learned over the past four months. Though they will probably be overshadowed later down the educational highway of lessons and other advanced classes, they will, for the time being, serve as the stepping stones that will help lead the way to your eventual graduation. It falls to all of you, our clever and hilarious students, to continue entertaining future generations of cartoon viewers and letting them savor the joy and wonder that is animation. In addition, you have your own personal careers to think about and these Exams will play an integral part in your educational journey. So, seriously, try to be serious about this. Though not _too_ serious," Bugs added on a lighter tone. "Even in the most demanding situations, a smile and a confident laugh can be lifesavers."

"Secondly," Bugs continued, "as a reminder, the Acme Loo Christmas Eve party will take place on Wednesday of next week. For all those wishing to attend, please sign up by my office before the end of this Friday. And remember," he added, "we need volunteers to help us get the party set up, so feel free to offer a helping hand.

"And lastly . . ." Bugs let out a deep sigh as though he preferred not to say what he was going to say next. "Lastly . . . a few words from Montana Max."

The silence that filled the school vanished instantly. Hamton could've sworn he heard a number of "Huhs?" and "Wha?" and other such murmuring sounds throughout the building. Professor Road Runner was scratching his blue plumed head with one of his long bird legs. His puzzled look was shared amongst the other students. Hamton turned and gazed upon Monty's empty desk. He hadn't noticed the rich boy's absence; his mind was too carried away with thoughts about Fifi.

The whole school fell quiet again as a familiar, mean, obnoxious voice came from the classroom speakers.

"Morning all you peasants and other words for the worthless lower class. Montana Max here, and I got a few things to say myself." He cleared his throat for effect. "As some of you may know, Hamton J. Pig has been offering to do jobs for people since this month began."

A rock may have hit Hamton aside the head. Sitting solidly still in his seat, he felt every face in the class turn towards him as his ears remained glued to what Monty was saying.

"Well, I have a special offer for all _you_ peasants." It couldn't have been clearer that Monty was grinning wickedly as he said this. "Why give someone your money when you can _get_ some money instead?"

His voice became suddenly serious. "Now, this next part is _not_ a joke. Seriously. I know it may seem so coming from me, but believe me, you _better_ believe me! I will give one-hundred dollars to any and all students who refuses to offer Hamton Pig any more jobs for the rest of this month. For those interested, please come on down to Principal Bugs' office right this second."

A second of silence went by, then the entire school erupted with noise. Classroom doors were thrown off their hinges and hundreds of students rushed out and down the halls.

Most of Professor Road Runner's class had left. Besides Hamton and his friends, the only students remaining in their seats were Mary Melody, Little Sneezer, and, to some slight surprise, Elmyra.

"What?" she asked, smiling and stroking her pet rock. "I don't need Monty's money. I just need his sweet sugary lips this Christmas." Giggling, she rubbed her cheek against Rocky. Mary, who was sitting next to her, rolled her eyes at the sappy girl's public affection.

Monty started talking again; the sounds of eager voices could be heard in the background.

"Oh, and while I'm at it," he drawled, "I've taken the unauthorized liberty of installing every classroom in this school with Acme Fold-Out TVs so I could give you all some morning entertainment."

A loud beep sounded over the intercom and Hamton looked forward, as did the teacher and remaining students. A long white screen folded out and covered the length of the chalkboard. Then, acting as though it were a TV, it filled with static as the word PLAY appeared in the top right corner.

"For the sake of some good laughs," said Monty, "I had Hamton come over and do some odd jobs for me last Saturday. Here's a look into what I had him do. . . ."

Hardly able to breathe or believe what was happening, Hamton, his few remaining classmates, and Professor Road Runner watched as he, Hamton, received a jump-scare from a potted plant, yelled in fright, and launched himself right up to the ceiling where he banged his head.

"And that was just the first job," snickered Monty.

Laughter erupted from outside the classroom's busted doorway.

Hamton sank into his seat, his cheeks burning and wanting nothing more than to disappear as, one after another, Monty showed crystal clear footage of every horrible job he made Hamton undergo at his mansion.

Hamton's friends could hardly bare to watch. Buster, Plucky, Furrball, and Sneezer winced every time Hamton got smacked. Babs, Shirley, and Mary covered their mouths in shock at what they were seeing, at what Hamton had allowed himself to be put through. Even Elmyra's goofy attitude faltered as Hamton suffered burns and gunshots, though her smile returned at the sight of the piranhas, completely ignoring their savage attempts to eat Hamton alive.

"OOOOH!" she squealed. "Hungry fishies!"

Babs and Shirley both growled and bared their teeth in her direction, which very effectively shut Elmyra up.

But then Hamton's gaze turned to Fifi, and what he saw made him wish he were unconscious as well as invisible.

Fifi's eyes were wide and motionless. Her face was frozen with shock and disbelief. It was such an uncomfortable thing to see that Hamton felt suddenly sick.

On and on, the screams, the hits, the near-misses continued, all cumulating with the loud and massive explosion which ended Hamton's Ten Trials of Terrible Torment. Monty must've edited the footage because his own furious, fuming face wasn't seen, nor was the part where Grovely handed Hamton his five-hundred dollar payment (this last bit being lucky on Hamton's part).

Finally, after only a minute, the picture disappeared, but the laughter around the school continued.

"Well, that's all folks," said Monty. There was a pause and some muffled speech. "What? What do you mean I can't use that phrase?" Monty shouted in anger. "Oh, who cares about copyright infringement? I'm rich you fat, stupid pig! I can do whatever I — Hey!" he shouted to someone else. "You already got your hundred! Try that again and I'll buy your house, blow it up, and throw you and your family out on the —!"

"That's enough, Monty!" came Bugs Bunny's aggravated voice. "Back to class, everyone! Now! GET OUTTA HERE! And as for _you_ , Rich Boy, I have an assignment for you. You're going to put in an order form for about fifty new school doors!"

And with that, the intercom gave a sound that signaled the end of the message.

Humiliated, Hamton gazed around the classroom. The majority of those looking at him were sympathetic.

One, however, wasn't.

Fifi was facing forward in her seat, her head lowered and her purple furred hands clenched on her desk. It was as though a storm had quietly drifted into her mind and was slowly unleashing its torrent upon the land. Finally, her head turned. The look she gave Hamton out of the corner of her eyes was neither sympathy nor sadness. It was stiff and still, and very cold.

"Fifi?" he asked timidly.

She didn't answer.

* * *

Hamton couldn't recall having a worse school day in his life, let alone have everything go wrong within the first five minutes.

Nearly every student at Acme Loo had taken Monty's offer and were all one-hundred dollars richer as a result. This, Hamton knew, would be a huge problem in his hopes of raising money. All he had to look forward to now was Mary Melody's music practice on Tuesday. Mary, out of the goodness of her heart, hadn't gone running for money and assured Hamton that she would still like his help tomorrow after school.

How he was going to raise any _more_ money after that, he had no clue, but right now, he had a more pressing problem — one nightmarishly worse than a lack of resources _or_ being humiliated on a school-wide scale.

After an hour of Calculations from which Hamton could hardly take in a single variable, he and his friends set off for lunch.

"Fifi?" he called, walking towards her through a dense crowd. "Fifi?"

But she did not stop or look back at Hamton. Instead, she quickened her pace, her large fluffy tail bouncing as she headed down the hall towards the cafeteria.

Hamton grimaced. Being ignored by a friend (or someone you thought of as more than a friend) was _never_ a good sign. Looking to his other friends, they seemed just uneasy as he did.

When they joined Fifi at their usual spot (with an extra chair pulled up so Furrball could eat with them), Fifi took a large bite out her biscuit and chewed slowly.

"Fifi? You all right?" asked Babs, reaching out to touch her hand.

"Oui," she said roughly with a full mouth, pulling her hand away.

This did not convince a single person. Anybody who knew Fifi knew that she had excellent table manners, so this full-mouthed response was far from being truthful.

"Is there, like," said Shirley, "some junk you want to share? I mean, as your friends, we'll listen."

Swallowing, Fifi wiped her lips with a napkin (a good sign) and said, quite calmly. "Hamton?"

"Yeah, Fifi?" he asked hesitantly. He had not touched a bite of his beef stew.

"Would it be acceptable if I ask you some things?" She was speaking calmly enough, but there was a firm steadiness to her voice that suggested something horribly awry.

"S-sure," Hamton replied. He felt he knew what was coming, and sure enough —

"Did you go to Monty's mansion last Saturday and do zhose jobs for him?" she asked, staring fixedly into Hamton's eyes — a cold and unfriendly gleam. "I want to hear zis from you, just in case Monty somehow managed to fabricate zhose atrocious acts you went through."

Buster, Babs, Shirley, Plucky, and Furrball all glanced uncomfortably from Fifi to Hamton, who felt diminished and trapped, even less hungry now than earlier.

He gulped silently. With a sigh, he said, "Yes, Fifi . . . I did go to Monty's on Saturday . . . and I did do all of that. . . ."

All around, silverware scraped against trays and people talked and laughed, discussing school and the holidays, totally oblivious to Hamton and Fifi staring at each other and what was approaching.

In a stiff tone, Fifi replied, "I see."

"Fifi," Hamton said, his throat feeling tight. "You're not angry, are you?"

"Well, I do not know what to feel, to tell you ze truth, Hamton." She placed down her spoon and straightened up in her seat. Her beautiful face was rigid and her stare quite blank. "Quite simply, I am shocked. I would have liked to think zat, after ze countless cruel ways Monty has treated us over ze years, you would have refused to do _anything_ for him."

"Fifi . . ." Babs began, but Buster grabbed her hand and gently shook his head. Hamton resented this action; he would've more than welcomed Babs' assistance.

"Well. . ." Hamton said hesitantly, his mouth dry. "I _did_ think of leaving after the first room. You know, the one with the Frightening Fig. But . . . but I . . ."

Fifi glared. Hamton cringed. He knew he couldn't say anything more. To do so would risk telling Fifi that the reason he went to Monty's in the first place was for _her_ , and this, he felt, would only make her livid.

He turned to each of his friends, each looking at him with enormous sympathy, all except for Fifi, who had no attention for anyone but him.

"Well, Hamton?" she asked coldly. "I am waiting."

"Fifi, I . . ." He paused. What in the name of Chuck Jones was he supposed to tell her? "I just needed the job . . . and . . . I took it. That's it. I didn't think —"

"Well, zat is clear!" snapped Fifi, startling Furrball and Babs at her sides and alerting the whole cafeteria. "To think, you would take a job from ze school's most heartless, self-centered scoundrel on ze same day you had plans with _me_!"

It was like having nerves torn from the muscles: each word spoken with such fury it left burns on your insides. Fifi had never talked to Hamton like this — her anger was more terrifying than anything he could ever envision, and the whole cafeteria felt it.

"Fifi, no! Please!" Hamton begged, shaking his hands desperately. "You don't understand! I didn't forget about you! I thought of my time with you every step of the way!"

"Zen _why_ would you put our time togezher at risk?!" she demanded, sounding hurt. "Was being injured and degraded more important zan being with me?"

"No! Of course not! You know that it isn't!"

She frowned bitterly.

"Please, excusez-moi," Fifi said to the lot of them. She pushed herself out from her seat and left her friends staring after her as she stormed out of the cafeteria.

Hamton acted at once. With not a clue in his head what he would was going to do, he shoved his untouched food aside and ran after Fifi, his friends still in their seats.

Outside in the empty locker-filled hall, Hamton cried, "Fifi! Please wait!"

She stopped moving, her hands curled into fists.

"Fifi?" Hamton alone approached her just as the group caught up with them. The boys looked too uncomfortable to do anything and the girls seemed to know better than to interrupt what was happening.

Hamton's insides writhed with discomfort; he felt sick and thought talking would only make it worse. But he also knew he _had_ to speak, otherwise something much worse would happen, and he would rather be turned into bacon than allow that.

"Fifi," he said, his heart beating so fast that it hurt, "never in a million years would I choose to work for Monty over spending a few minutes or even a few seconds with you. You mean more to me than anything anyone could offer."

Though hardly believing he was openly admitting this, Hamton didn't care. All that mattered was that Fifi heard it and that she _not_ be furious with him.

Fifi turned around, stern and unblinking.

"So why did you risk doing it?" she asked.

"I thought I could finish the job in time," said Hamton truthfully. "I thought I could make it through, and I did."

Fifi said nothing at first, though her anger seemed to lessen. "How did you get home after all zat? You were blown up and hardly looked capable of moving, let alone walking."

"Uh . . . well," said Hamton, and his eyes drifted to the side, trying to see his friends from behind his back. "I . . . kind of had help."

But Fifi seemed to guess what Hamton meant. She leaned to the side and looked reproachfully at their friends.

Hamton heard Furrball give a low meow.

"You all knew?" asked Fifi, sounding hurt.

Hamton turned and looked at his nervous friends.

"Yeah, we knew, Fifi," Buster admitted. Plucky and Furrball nodded as well. "We helped get Hamton home and healed him up."

Fifi eyed Babs and Shirley. "You two as well?"

"N-No . . . at least, not at first," Babs explained. "Me and Shirley didn't learn about any of this until after you and Hamton left. We didn't know until the boys — "

"But we talked afterwards!" shot Fifi, her eyes wet, sounding very hurt. "We are best friends and yet _none_ of you thought to tell me!"

All five of them flinched with guilt.

"Fifi, please!" pleaded Hamton, walking up to her. "It's not their fault, it's mine! I asked them not to tell!"

She turned back to him, looking furious. "So now you are all keeping secrets from me?"

"Fifi, I'm sorry!" Hamton said desperately. "I shouldn't have taken the job, I know, but . . . I needed to raise the money."

"Oh, what a reason!" huffed Fifi, crossing his arms. "What did Monty pay you? Two cents?"

"No," said Plucky abruptly. "He paid him five hundred dol — OW!"

Buster and Shirley both elbowed him with scolding looks, but it was too late; the damage was lain.

Fifi's anger melted into shock. Her eyes went wide.

"Five hundred?" she said breathlessly to Hamton. "You took a job for five _hundred_ dollars?"

Uncomfortably, Hamton answered, "Yeah. . . ?"

"You are _still_ raising money?" Fifi exclaimed. "You have been working all December and you _still_ need to make money?"

"Yes. . . ?"

"What on earth for?" Fifi demanded. "What could be so important zat you would be willing to hurt yourself for money?"

She didn't sound angry anymore. Quite the contrary, she sounded frantic with confusion. But Hamton didn't like this attitude any better than her anger; if anything, he liked it less, because of what he couldn't say.

"I . . . I . . ." Hamton looked from Fifi to his friends. All of them seemed to be pleading with him to say something; for Fifi, the truth; for his friends, what his heart told him to say: _You can't hide the truth from her forever. You have to tell her._

With a horrible mingle of guilt and longing to speak the truth, Hamton sighed and lowered his head.

"I can't. . ." he said weakly, staring at Fifi's small, purple feet. "I . . . I can't tell you."

"You cannot or will not?" Fifi asked sharply.

Looking back up at her, Hamton gave his answer, his voice breaking. "I . . . won't."

And then there was silence, the most horrible silence heard all day. The five onlooking friends stared at the pig and the skunk, their discomfort plain from how still they were. Hamton looked pleadingly into Fifi's purple eyes, who looked back at him with no trace of anger, but with something far worse.

"I see . . ." the heartbroken skunk said weakly. "If zat is your answer, Hamton . . . if zat is all you can be open with . . . zen I will not hinder you. You can go about raising your money. . . . I am sorry I got in ze way and wasted your time with a silly date."

Hamton's mouth trembled. His insides seemed to disappear. No sickness on earth could match what he felt.

"It . . . it really was a date?" He said it quietly, but given the heavy silence, he may very well have shouted it.

"Of course it was a date," said Fifi mournfully. "I had a feeling and I went with it. I wanted to understand how I felt. But now . . ." She turned. "Now I do not know what to feel. . . . Good day . . . Hamton. . . ."

With no strength to speak any more, Fifi turned and walked away. Her huge fluffy tail dragged along the cold tiles, her head bowed.

Feeling so empty that he wondered how it was possible he was still alive, Hamton watched Fifi as she went. And, if only her back wasn't turned, he would've seen that her face was just as wet as his.

* * *

 **Please comment and let me know how you liked it.**


	29. A Puma's Aid

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Many thanks.**

* * *

 **Chapter 29**

 _A Puma's Aid_

 _~Dec. 15th~_

Neither Hamton nor Fifi could remember having a worse day. There didn't seem to be anything that could distract or push away the event that occurred in the hall, and if there was, it was neglectful beyond redemption. The two barely took in a word of their classes, yet their hands continued to write notes almost of their own accord. Beyond this, the rest of their time at school this Monday was one of the most uncomfortable they had ever experienced.

Hamton, his eyes sore from tears, seemed to breathe less than what was normal. What was worse, he couldn't look in Fifi's general direction without wanting to break down. Hating himself, he kept his eyes forward.

Fifi was faring no better. Her usual large, fluffy tail laid limp on the classroom floor by her desk as she tried with all her might not to look at Hamton, otherwise she'd risk making her eyes burn worse than they already did.

And so they just sat there, taking notes, breathing, and nothing else.

When the 3:00 bell rang, they each gave a silent sigh — both out of depression for how bad everything was but also thankfulness that they could finally get out of school and stop torturing themselves in their efforts at avoiding one another.

"WAIT A MINUTE, CLASS!," Professor Granny bellowed, whacking her desk with a yard stick. The sounds of creaking chairs and desks halted with a dramatic screech. Calmly, Granny went on, "One more thing, students. Remember that your exams are of the utmost importance, so take every bit of time you have available to go over your notes. Study hard tonight and be ready to practice in class again tomorrow."

It was the first day in a long while that Hamton had to use a backpack. Most of the time it just hung from a hook inside his locker, but with the Cartoon Exams this Friday and the egregious amount of studying it entailed, he took it out and gave it a quick pat to remove the small layer of dust. He then stuffed it full with books and his written notes, so by the time he was finished packing, the backpack was so crammed that the zipper barely closed and the whole thing weighed like a ton of bricks.

He heaved it onto his back, the straps creaking from the strain. The weight, however, was nothing compared to how Hamton felt inside. In fact, compared to it, he would much rather carry _all_ his friends' backpacks than go another minute with what was aching inside him.

Fifi packed her school bag rather quickly. Then, with a quick and somber, "Au revoir," she headed straight for the school's exit, her heavy bag dragging on the floor at her side.

When she and her bag disappeared beyond the doors, Hamton fell back against the lockers in depression, his beachball-sized backpack propping him up so that he was spaced between the wall by a good two feet.

There came a very sad meow. Furrball was standing by his side, staring with sympathy.

Impossible though it seemed, Hamton managed a small smile. Just a small one, though.

"It'll be okay, Hamton," Babs said assuringly as she pulled on her winter coat. "Me and Shirley will talk to Fifi when she comes home after work tonight."

"And what exactly do you two plan on saying to her?" Hamton asked hopelessly. "That I'm a boy and boys do stupid things all the time for the girls they like?"

"…Well…" Shirley admitted hesitantly, "though there's, like, a lot of truth to that statement, me and Babs will try and help Fifi understand why you went to Monty's house, _without_ telling her the reason." She paused suddenly and frowned, catching the meaning of her own words. "Oh, wow . . . this is gonna be a tough one, Babs."

"Great, thanks," Hamton groaned dismally, bowing his head and wondering how, just seven hours ago, he could've been so happy as he stood in this very spot, staring into Fifi's beautiful eyes.

"Ah, stop worrying, Hamton," said Plucky, who returned from the bathroom. He was dressed in his waiter's uniform and tying his bow tie. "Listen, me and Fifi have to work every day this week, so I can try and talk to her a little bit, too."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Buster asked skeptically. "Plucky, you do know that Hamton wants Fifi to forgive him, right?"

"Of course, I do!" retorted Plucky. "I'll think before I speak. Gee-whiz, what do you guys take me for? I might have a big mouth, but I've been improving, in case you all haven't noticed."

"Just be careful, Plucky," said Babs. "If you're too persistent, Fifi might get the wrong impression. Plus," she said to both him and her boyfriend, " 'forgive' isn't really the right word here. Fifi's not really angry with Hamton, she's just . . . well . . ."

"Totally confused," Shirley finished for her. "And it makes it, like, mondo harder for us because we can't tell Fifi _why_ Hamton's doing all this."

"She must think I'm greedy," Hamton lamented. "I can't blame her. I mean, me taking a job for Monty . . . I must've looked desperate."

"Hamton, pal . . ." said Buster kindly. "You're doing all of this to make Fifi happy. You're going to such a distance that few people would ever dare and try. There is nothing greedy about any of that."

"Yeah, but it _was_ desperate, no denying that," Plucky commented.

Hamton gave a wry smirk. "Well, I certainly feel desperate. Now more than ever." Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, remembering Fifi's saddened face. "I _got_ to get that perfume!"

"Hamton, just take it slow," Babs counselled.

"Slow?" said Hamton brashly. "Babs, I can't afford to be slow now! There's only one week left and Monty's paid off the entire school not to help me!"

"That's not true," said Buster. "There's Mary and Sneezer, remember, Hamton? They didn't get pulled in by Monty's bribe. They still want you to come and help them tomorrow."

" _And_ ," Babs added with a smile, "Buster and Furrball had a talk with Bugs in the Principal's office."

Hamton stared at her, puzzled. "And?"

" _And_ ," Buster continued, "given that Monty's little offer caused most of the school's doors to be blasted off their hinges, Pete Puma needs some help replacing them. The hinges, mostly. Only a couple of the class doors got wrecked. So," he smiled at Hamton, "you and Furrball can have some paid work to do tonight, if you're interested."

Hamton's stared in wonder. The horrible weight inside him seemed to be lifting. "Really? You guys —"

"You can thank us later," said Plucky, smirking. He gave Hamton's shoulder a pat, which put him off balance with his heavy backpack and made him teeter against the lockers. "Well, guys, I better head on to work. Those tips aren't going to collect themselves!" He started for the exit, humming merrily.

"Remember, Plucky!" shouted Babs. "Don't be too insistent! Just try and keep it simple!"

"Yeah," Shirley called after. "Leave the complicated stuff for us girls when _we_ talk to Fifi!"

"Yes, mothers! I'll also remember to say 'please' and 'thank you', and make sure I tip my hat every time I get a tip!" he cried out with steady annoyance as he pulled the school doors open and disappeared behind them.

Hamton turned back to Buster and Furrball. "Thanks, guys," he said, sounding cheerful for the first time in hours. "I really don't know what to say."

"No sweat," said Buster. "Come on, Babsy. We better get to the Mall."

"The Mall?" asked Hamton, removing his hefty backpack.

"Yeah," said Babs. "Me and Buster both took a small job wrapping gifts. Just for a little extra something this Christmas, you know."

Smiling, she took Buster's hand. "And Hamton?" she said gently. "Don't worry. Me and Shirley will talk to Fifi tonight."

"Thank you," he said sincerely to both girls. "Really, I can't thank you all enough."

"Like, no problemo," said Shirley with a friendly wave. "Now, I better get going, too. I got a few little things to do myself."

Shirley give a wink to Buster and Babs as she passed. Before Hamton could question the odd gesture, Buster said, "See ya, Hamton. See ya, Furrball," and walked off, leaving the two alone in the locker-filled hall.

* * *

Though Hamton couldn't stop thinking about Fifi, his spirits did improve considerably over the next few hours. With Bugs Bunny's suggestion that Pete Puma go and start janitoring the school (because fixing things wasn't really his specialty), he set Hamton and Furrball to work on the repairs.

"I'm really sorry about this morning, Hamton," said Principal Bugs sincerely. "I had no idea Monty was going to show that footage, or even that he somehow installed all those Acme Fold-Out Screens. I would've stopped it but. . . ." He winced uncomfortably while rubbing the back of his neck.

"You were too shocked by everything you saw?" Hamton guessed, half amused, half weary.

"Yeah," Bugs admitted. "I mean, piranhas, Hamton?"

"Yeah . . . not the wisest choice, I know," he murmured with embarrassment.

Looking stern, Bugs added, "I don't approve of what Monty did, but I also can't say I'm happy about _your_ reckless choices, Hamton. I hope whatever it is you're up to was worth all that trouble."

"Well . . . _who_ I'm working for is," said Hamton assuredly. _Now more than ever_ , he added in his thoughts.

"Well," said Bugs, and his tone was back to its usual friendly self, "I will gladly pay you and Furrball to help us out. Does thirty dollars sound fair for replacing the door hinges and putting in five new doors? I'd offer you a lot more but we need the money for the party on the 24th."

"Thirty dollars is perfectly fine," said Hamton happily. Furrball nodded in agreement.

"Okay, then," Bugs said, smiling. "Let's get to the Shop Room and find you boys some tools. Oh, and, uh, Furrball?"

Furrball meowed questioningly.

"I know your string of bad luck isn't nearly as bad as it used to be since _Tiny Toons_ ended, but . . ." he smiled meaningfully, "just for the sake of your safety, please just wait outside the door as me and Hamton get the tools."

* * *

Replacing the hinges was not difficult. If Hamton did it all by himself, he would most certainly have been grumbling as he tried to prop up the door while drilling in the new hinge. But Furrball, as he had done all month, helped make the job so much easier. Together, they took out the torn hinges and screwed in the new ones. The old class doors swung open and shut again as good as new.

The replacement doors weren't so bad either, except that they needed to be lifted about a quarter inch off the ground so as to reach the hinges and fit into the door frames.

By the time Hamton and Furrball finished, it was 6:00 at night.

"Gee, thanks you two," said Pete, dressed in his usual blue jumpsuit. "I would've been here 'til morning if you two hadn't helped. Nobody else wanted to do it and I still have half the school to clean."

"It was no problem, Pete," said Hamton. "We were glad to do it."

Furrball nodded.

"Well, see you later, Pete."

Hamton and Furrball turned to leave, both with the idea of heading straight home and eating some dinner. But before they could get around the hall's corner, Pete called, "Hey, uh, Hamton?"

Hamton, along with Furrball, turned around. "Yes, Pete?"

Pete seemed to be considering what he wanted to say. He scratched his furry chin with his finger and was glancing around the floor as though he had hardly noticed it before.

"Um . . . Hamton?" he ventured in his goofy voice. "Didn't you say you were looking for jobs to do?"

"Well . . . I was," said Hamton with a shrug. "But since Monty paid off the whole school, I don't know what chances there are of that happening around here."

"But he said nothin' about the school _staff_ offering you jobs," said Pete with a smile.

Hamton stared at him. "I don't understand."

"Well, if you want to, I could use some help cleaning the school. I'll gladly pay you if you help."

Taken aback by this offer, Hamton turned to Furrball, who looked just as surprised as he felt.

But this was where Hamton put his foot down. "Pete, I can't do that. I can't take any money out of your paycheck. You work hard to clean our school every day."

"I get paid quite a bit, though," Pete told them. "If fact, I actually get paid more than most of the teachers. And besides, it's not like I'll give you all my _whole_ check, just fifteen dollars."

"But don't you need that money?" asked Hamton, still hardly believing that Pete was making this offer. "The holidays are almost here. Surely you must need that for shopping."

"Actually," said Pete, "the holidays are the reason I would like your help. You see, being the school's janitor, I have to clean this whole big building every day when everyone leaves. And, well, because it's so big, it takes me a really, _really_ long time to clean. I've hardly had time to go and shop or plan things with my family and other stuff. So, I would really like the help."

Hamton looked from Furrball, then back to Pete. "And you're absolutely, positively sure that you want to pay us to help you?"

"Absotively posolutly," replied Pete in his dimwitted manner.

Hamton stood there, stunned but relieved, hardly able to believe his fortune could turn around this generously.

"Well . . . okay, Pete," said Hamton finally. "If it really is okay with you . . . I will work for you today."

"Oh, uh, actually," said Pete, "I meant for the rest of this week."

Hamton's jaw dropped and hit the floor. He yanked his curly tail to get it back up.

"The whole week?" he asked loudly.

Pete flinched. "Yeah? Is that okay?"

"You'll pay me and Furrball fifteen dollars to help you each day for the whole week?"

"Yeah...?"

This was more than Hamton could've imagined. Here he had been, dreading how he was going to raise money for Fifi's gift, but now, as though a prayer had been answered from above, a ray of hope seemed to ignite in his heart.

"And you're still okay with paying us fifteen dollars per day?" Hamton asked, believing it too good to be true.

"Yeah, of course," said Pete, smiling. "Wow, I must've said that like three times now! Heh heh, what goes around, comes around, I guess."

"Furrball, what do you think?" asked Hamton. But there was no need asking. Furrball's smile was just as bright as Hamton's renewed hope.

Unable to fight it off anymore, Hamton replied, "Okay, then. Where would you like to start?"

Looking quite pleased at this acceptance, Pete said, "If you can grab my broom and start sweeping the classrooms, I'll run the floor with my mop."

"Okay."

Hamton grabbed the broom sticking out from the janitor's cart.

"Furrball," he said, "I can take it from here. You can head back home and have yourself some dinner."

Furrball gave a meow which plainly said, "You sure?"

"Yeah, go ahead," said Hamton, thankful at Furrball's willingness to help. "You've did enough for me today. Just put any leftovers in the fridge and I'll eat when I get home."

Furrball nodded and took his leave, walking crookedly at the weight of books and notebooks from his tattered backpack.

"Ready, Hamton?" asked Pete, dipping his mop into the wheeled bucket and then straining it of water.

"Yep," said Hamton determinedly. "Let's clean!"

* * *

Given his own superb cleaning skills (and the fact that he had been cleaning for other people all month), Hamton and Pete were able to work remarkably fast. Indeed, Pete let out a whistle at how they were able to clean a whole classroom in just eight minutes flat.

Though he still felt a grumbling hollowness in his stomach, Hamton found it remarkable how easy it was to ignore his hunger right now. Yes, it was there, but it wasn't dragging him down as much as his thoughts. And he certainly had a lot to be anxious about.

This morning had been stressful for a number of reasons. Fifi had no idea how close she had come to knowing the reason why Hamton was doing all this work. What would she think if she found out that he'd be helping Pete with his janitoring for the rest of the week? Would she be angry? Does she think him as greedy and desperate for money as Monty? Is that why she was so upset when she watched him being pulverized in Monty's mansion?

And even if by some miracle Hamton did somehow raise enough money to buy the Du Coeur — his resources being severally crippled regardless — would Fifi accept it now when she didn't even know what to think or feel about him?

The dread of that possibility must've shown in Hamton's expression as he swept the classroom floor, for Pete asked, "You okay, Hamton?"

"Huh?" he asked, dazed from his stressful daydream. "Oh yeah," he answered in alert, quickly wiping his face. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem a little a sad," Pete answered with concern. "Is it about that awful stuff Monty showed this morning? I heard about it through Principal Bugs."

"Oh, no, that's not it," said Hamton truthfully, though admittedly it certainly did contribute to the problem.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Pete asked, "Is it about that pretty skunk girl?"

Hamton jerked so violently that his broom swept forward and toppled a desk. It hit the floor with a clatter. Quickly, Hamton set it up straight again and looked at Pete in wide-eyed shock.

"W-Wha . . . what makes you think that?" he asked, feeling as though he were being accused of some terrible crime.

Not reacting to this loud question, Pete resumed mopping where Hamton had swept. "I remember two weeks ago how you waited for her outside the girl's bathroom when she was crying." The goofy lion smiled, "I think that was very nice. And you even walked her home, which I think was even more nice. I just thought that maybe your frowny face had something to do with her. When I came in today, I saw her leave with her heavy bag. She looked kinda sad. . ."

Hamton stared at Pete, hardly able to believe they were talking about Fifi. It was bad enough she consumed Hamton's thoughts already but hearing someone else talk about her gloomy attitude made it feel as though it were happening all over again, like a terrible, heartbreaking cartoon on rerun.

"Yeah . . ." Hamton confessed, staring down at his broom. "I _am_ thinking about Fifi. She . . . she's a little upset with me. . . ."

"I sure whatever's bothering her won't last long," said Pete. His goofy voice made this sentence sound slightly foolish, but Hamton could tell that Pete truly meant what he was saying. "Stuff like fights don't usually last too long. I see you guys a lot in school, and from what I see, you and your other friends really like each other."

He paused, and after Hamton didn't say anything, Pete turned back to his mopping. "Sorry if I'm not helping, Hamton. I know I'm not really smart," he said regretfully. "And I know I'm not good at a lot of stuff, but —"

"No, Pete," said Hamton kindly. "I really appreciate what you've got to say. It might not seem like much to other people, but for me . . . talking with friends really helps."

Pete smiled and said, "You're welcome, Hamton. Happy to help," and he went back to mopping with a proud stride. And though he couldn't really explain it, Hamton felt a lot happier as he swept the last of the room's dirt.

Who knew talking to a janitor could make even the worst situations feel manageable?

* * *

 _$423_

 _-$30 (door repair)_

 _-$15 (janitoring with Pete, Monday)_

 _ **$378 to go - 10 Days until Dec. 24th**_

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	30. Harp Strings and Heartstrings

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Many thanks.**

* * *

 **Chapter 30**

 _Harp Strings and Heartstrings_

 _~Monday, Dec. 15th~_

The majestic beauty of the Acme Acres Country Club had never been less appealing to Fifi.

With the holidays fast approaching, the luxurious five-star restaurant was very busy today, despite it being Monday. The evening customers were donned in elegant suits and bright silk gowns as they sat at tables surrounded by polished silverware and gleaming candelabras with tall candles emitting soft, golden hues. The lush red carpet remained smooth regardless of the servers moving from table to table, taking orders and delivering food and drink, some by steel cart.

And Fifi . . . she just continued plucking harp strings as always, though today her playing felt most mechanical. Most evenings she would become so immersed in the music that her brainwaves seemed to move with the rhythm and she would forget about everything else around her. She and her harp would be one and the same, hoping to provide an elegant, and hopefully romantic, evening for the guests as they chatted about their lives and indulged their taste buds.

Today, however, it felt as though Fifi was just sitting at her stool, watching a pair of purple, furred hands pluck string after string. It felt so lifeless . . . so blah . . . so . . .

"Le sigh . . ." said Fifi wearily, shaking her head.

She glanced around the dining area for some distraction, hoping to relieve her boredom, but there was nothing noteworthy; just the usual couple or family get-together, nothing she hadn't seen a hundred times before. Everything was running like clockwork: the movement of cutlery, the twinkling glow of candelabras, the kitchen doors flapping open and close.

Over at a corner table near a large potted tree, Plucky wrote down an order in his notepad and walked back to the kitchen, giving Fifi a brief smile as he went, to which she kindly returned.

When an hour had passed and it was finally time for intermission, Fifi made her way from the dining area and to the women's restroom. Inside, she checked to make sure she was alone. The crystal clean stalls were all vacant, the large, pristine mirrors gave no reflection but hers, and the place was quiet. In that instant, Fifi's mind, which she had forced to focus for hours on music, finally gave way to her suppressed thoughts, and it occurred to her that she was exhausted.

Groaning, she leaned over a porcelain sink, looked in the mirror, and ran her hands down her white furry cheeks.

"Snap out of it!" she scolded at her reflection. "You have an hour and a half left of work! Stop theenking about Hamton!"

But Fifi sighed again. She knew it was no use. It would've been easier to magically change the color of her fur.

She pressed her hands again into her soft face. "Why can I not stop theenking about it?"

After standing there for a whole minute, pondering a question with no answer within reach, Fifi took a few deep breaths, smoothed out her hair and face to the best presentable state she could, and left the restroom. Though no more energetic than she was when she entered, she knew the customers would notice the lack of music before long. It wouldn't do to keep them waiting, especially when she was on the job.

Opening the door, she found someone waiting for her outside.

"Fifi, you okay?" Plucky asked. "You were in there for quite a while."

"Oh, oui," Fifi affirmed with a weak, unconvincing smile. "Just . . . just trying to gazher myself. Well . . . ze music is calling, non?"

Before Plucky could reply, Fifi walked quickly away and back to the harp at the dining room's center. The last thing she wanted to do right now was discuss her feelings while in the middle of work. Though she would've liked to talk (even to Plucky of all her friends), Fifi knew she wouldn't play as elegantly if her own confused feelings were spiraling freely.

"Theenk about ze music," she told herself under her breath. "Focus on ze harp, play ze music, do not theenk about Hamton!"

Fifi's hands moved to the instrument. The thin strings seemed to send bright energy through her fingertips, but still her thoughts didn't stop.

She kept seeing images of Hamton getting hurt and being ridiculed by Montana Max. The thought of that vile, covetous, buck-toothed boor laughing as poor Hamton got hurt made Fifi angrier than words could describe. But the fact that Hamton _allowed_ himself to be put through that gauntlet of torture —

"Uh . . . Fifi?"

She froze. Someone was tapping on her shoulder.

She turned. Plucky was standing beside her, and several guests were gawking in their direction.

"Fifi," Plucky whispered. "I'm all for metal or rock or whichever of the two you were playing just now, but I don't think our boss wants anything outside of elegant classic."

"Pardon?" Fifi asked, wide-eyed. Had she played her thoughts out on the harp?

"Are you sure you're okay, Fifi?" Plucky asked, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, _really_ okay?"

"Oui," Fifi asserted with a quick nod, and she started strumming an elegant tune. "I am just a leettle distracted tonight, zat is all."

"Okay . . . if you're sure," Plucky said, walking back to serve another table.

"Focus, Fifi!" she scolded herself. "Theenk about something happy. Something beautiful."

Fifi closed her eyes and let her fingers dance with the strings. As she did, her thoughts formed images that she cherished:

She and Hamton walking together. Hamton's comforting words. Hamton singing with her at the Mall while Mary Melody played piano. She and Hamton sharing a soufflé at Frosty's. Her arms around him . . . her furry cheek pressed to his smooth, cute face. . . .

"Wow! You recovered nicely!" came an abrupt voice.

Fifi's eyes shot open and her fingers stopped strumming again. Plucky was giving a thumbs-up as all the guests gave a polite applause.

Half delighted, half surprised, Fifi returned to the harp and used these thoughts of Hamton to drive her music. And while this was relaxing and soothing, it didn't come without a few less desirable thoughts. Every time Fifi tried to dwell on her date with Hamton, her mind would inadvertently drift forward to today and everything bad that happened:

How she refused to look at Hamton all morning. How he struggled to explain. How she yelled her disappointment right to his face. . . .

The loathing Fifi felt for her actions were almost more than she could stand. She shouldn't have yelled.

"Uh . . . Fifi?"

Gritting her teeth, she stopped. That's the third time she was snapped out of her thoughts _and_ music!

" _WHAT_?" she shouted irritably.

Startled, Plucky backed away and tripped over. The guests all turned in surprise; an uncomfortable silence fell upon the entire club.

Stunned and ashamed, Fifi leapt from her stool and helped Plucky to his feet. "Oh, Plucky! I am so sorry!"

"It's okay," he assured, brushing off his waiter's vest and straightening his bow tie. "I was just going to ask if you're feeling okay. Your music changed again. This time it sounded . . . kind of sad and angry at the same time."

Fifi felt her heart shrink inside her chest. _What is wrong with moi_ , she screamed internally.

"Fifi, maybe you should take a break," Plucky suggested, sounding genuinely concerned. "You might get into trouble with the manager if this keeps up."

"Non! I-I am fine," Fifi anxiously replied. "I-I just need to theenk of something different. Do not fear, I will not let it happen again!"

Plucky, who didn't look entirely convinced, sighed and said, "If you say so. . . ."

Stern and flustered, Fifi sat back on the stool and forced herself to focus on nothing but the harp in front of her and the sound of its strings. And from there, the music played.

Every time her thoughts drifted to Hamton, Fifi would grit her teeth and force herself to play on, ignoring the dull ache inside her skull . . . an ache that was continually growing as the clock ticked away the remainder of the Country Club's evening. . . .

* * *

When the Country Club finally announced itself closed and the staff began to punch out, Fifi's sore fingers immediately relieved themselves of the harp strings. She leaned back on the stool, fell over, and was stopped from hitting the floor by her large fluffy tail which propped herself up.

She breathed heavily and ran her hands through her periwinkle hair. The last half hour had been torturous as her brain threatened to explode from restrained thoughts.

After five full minutes of rest on the restaurant's red carpet, Fifi got to her feet and walked to the kitchen to clock out. She grabbed her long, white scarf off the hook and wrapped it snuggly around her neck. She then took a slow, deep breath. Tired and with too much pressing on her mind, Fifi knew she would have to hold off on studying for the Exams until tomorrow. All she wanted right now was to get home and go to sleep.

All the staff had left the Country Club except for the janitor, who started running the vacuum over the carpet; the whir of the machine greatly contrasted from the pleasant chatter and bright harp music from earlier. Fifi gave her elegant instrument one last fond look for the night and headed towards the exit. When she reached the brass framed doors, she found a green-feathered someone standing there, waiting.

"Hey, Fifi." Plucky was dressed in his winter coat, his hands in his pockets and a determined look on his face. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

"Can it wait until tomorrow, Plucky?" Fifi asked, rubbing her tired face with her hand. "I really want to go home and theenk for a leetle bit."

"About Hamton, by any chance?"

Fifi gaped at him as though he had just slapped her.

"You . . . how did you —?"

"Just a guess," said Plucky with a shrug, "but I thought the many moods your music took on tonight might've been due to some mixed feelings."

Fifi gently bit her bottom lip. Plucky's guess couldn't have been more accurate.

"So?" he asked. "Please, be honest. Is there _anything_ you want to talk about, Fifi?"

She said nothing, not knowing whether or not she wanted to say anything.

"Look, I know I might be a boy," Plucky commented with a friendly chuckle, "but my time with Shirley has taught me a couple things. One is that talking usually helps people feel better, especially when it's with your friends. As sappy as it sounds, I've come to see that it's true."

Fifi stared at him, impressed by his simple yet wise words. Yet still she hesitated. A part of her — the stubborn part — told her to push the green mallard aside, slap him with her tail, and tell him to mind his own business so she could go home already.

Another part — the part that desperately wanted someone to talk to so as to try and clear this mess of confusion — told her to go ahead and ask.

Surely it would be all right to tell him, Fifi thought. Plucky was a friend, after all. Sure, he's a bit dense when it comes to romantic advice, but he could at least be trusted to give a halfway decent opinion. Better than nothing.

And Fifi agreed: Plucky's relationship with Shirley had taught him a few things, besides how not to act like an arrogant stuck-up. Yes, he had _definitely_ grown out of that . . . at least partially. . . .

With a sigh, Fifi started to speak. "Plucky . . . I really do not know what is happening to me. I . . . I theenk I may be losing my senses."

Plucky gave a friendly scoff. "You and just about every other person on Earth. Don't feel left out, Fifi. There's plenty to make us feel crazy: exams, the holidays, levitating girlfriends who insist you eat only tofu. Oh, uh, sorry," he said, grinning sheepishly. "That's just me. So, uh, what exactly has you thinking you're off your rocker?"

"A number of theengs," answered Fifi, as she stared out the door's window to the dark and empty street. "I do not understand it, Plucky. How could Hamton take a job from Monty, and on ze same day we had plans? I mean . . . did he not care he would get hurt? Did he not think _I_ would care? All zhose horrible theengs we saw today. . . ."

Plucky sighed. "Well, for starters, I don't think my pal expected Monty to show the whole school everything he made him do. He probably hoped to keep those odd jobs hidden under his hat. Hamton's not the kind of guy who likes being in the spotlight, after all. That's more of my shtick."

"Zen _why_?" demanded Fifi. "Why would Hamton bozher going zhere in ze first place? What could be worth hurting yourself over and over for, all for ze amusement of ze most deplorable boy around?"

Plucky opened his bill to speak, but then closed it right afterwards. He looked off to the side, away from Fifi's gaze, towards the door.

"I . . . no idea, Fifi," said Plucky hesitantly. "Maybe Hamton just needed the money for something. Maybe he's planning something special, like a big holiday meal with his family. He likes to eat, you know." Plucky gave a weak laugh. "You could probably imagine how much money all that food would cost."

Fifi, however, did not find the joke amusing. Her eyebrows lowered.

"Plucky," she said, frowning with annoyance. "Forgive me, but zat is ridiculous. Hamton may like to eat, but five hundred dollars for one meal? He could buy out ze whole grocery store with zat money!"

Plucky gave another sigh. "Look, Fifi. I can already see I'm not doing too good a job of trying to help make things clearer, but . . . I've got to say this. . . ."

He took a step forward, eyeing her intently.

"You know that Hamton cares about you, right?"

Fifi stared back, feeling her cheeks burn.

Her head bowed, she thought of what Hamton said to her on Saturday, _You're the most wonderful girl I kn—_

She quietly responded, "Oui . . . I do. . . ."

"Then you should know that Hamton would never do _anything_ to make you feel bad."

Fifi looked up at him, unsure of how to respond.

"I'm not saying I like what he did, either, Fifi," Plucky clarified. "Honestly, when I first heard about it, I thought Hamton went crazy. We all know Monty has it out for us. But whatever the reason was, I think Hamton did it with good intentions, whatever they were. So . . . yeah. . . ." Plucky seemed to run out of things to say, or perhaps chose not to say anything more. Fifi couldn't tell.

"But why can he not tell me?" asked Fifi, her voice weak. "I mean, I trust _him_."

"I don't know why," said Plucky, shaking his head and looking down. "You're not angry with him because he didn't tell you, are you?"

"I wish he _would_ tell me," she muttered. "Does he think I would not understand?"

Fifi looked back towards the lavish dining room, to where her harp stood, silent and still as though asleep.

"I am not sure if I am angry, or frustrated, or sad, _or_ what I should be feeling. It . . . zat is what has me confused. I do not know how I should feel."

"Well, then," said Plucky, sounding more certain, "that's probably what you've got to focus on. Find out why you're feeling this way, then maybe you'll know what's what." On a happier note, he added, "If nothing else, it should help you with your harp playing."

Fifi turned and gave him a very bemused look.

"Haha, sorry," said Plucky, smiling modestly. "Bad time for a joke?"

"Non, non," Fifi chuckled. "Laughter can be ze best medicine sometimes." As a Toon, Fifi knew these words to be true. Though, at the moment, laughter seemed more like a sedative; a distraction from the confusion Fifi felt writhing inside her head.

"You know what, Fifi?" said Plucky on a sudden note. "Maybe it'll be best that you head on home. Maybe you'll think a little better after a walk through the fresh air."

Fifi watched Plucky step to the door.

"Hope you feel better in the morning," he said, pushing open the door. "And remember," he added, "Hamton would _never_ try to make you sad. You really mean lot to him."

And with that, he walked out, leaving Fifi mostly alone within the Country Club, the sound of the janitor's vacuum cleaner whirring behind her, circling the harp.

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	31. A Talk and a Dance

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Many thanks.**

* * *

 **Chapter 31**

 _A Talk and A Dance_

The night was blustery and cold. The ends of Fifi's scarf flapped with each step she took through the icy breeze. The sidewalk, like the city street, was devoid of people; no cars passed by up or down the quiet road. Except for when she had to cross to the next block, Fifi's sight remained fixed on her feet and what laid three feet in front of her.

She let out a breath of cold, visible air. She watched it fade, then continued on down the sidewalk, her mind whirring.

It was hard to believe that only twelve hours ago, before Monty had shown that terrible footage, she and Hamton were both laughing together. The warmth and joy Fifi had felt when they were alone by their lockers was indescribable.

 _Why did the bell have to ring?_ she thought with annoyance.

But as quickly as that wonderful sensation emerged, it fell like an anvil, slamming into Fifi's warm regard and leaving in its wake something blunt and harsh.

Her head aching, she forcefully walked on, her gaze harsh and unmoving.

As though she were witnessing it all again, the images from Monty's appalling slideshow reeled through Fifi's mind. Hamton, getting covered in three-hundred pounds of dust. Hamton, sprinting from falling beartraps. Hamton, nearly devoured by wild piranha. And — to what Fifi would have least expected of him — Hamton, pushing himself on through all that pain and humiliation. To think, he even allowed himself to be blown up!

The cold weight Fifi held inside her chest seemed to awaken again like an angry lion. She stopped where she was, frowning hard at the snowy, trodden sidewalk, her breath visible in the streetlamp's light as she exhaled through her pink nose.

Could anyone blame her for feeling angry with Hamton?

He not only got hurt while on the job (if anyone could call those grotesque travesties "jobs"), but he also endangered the evening they had planned together — a date which Fifi, at the time, had so thoroughly admired. Now, however, their time spent that Saturday felt trivial, as though it had been little more than two friends hanging out for a laugh...

This, she knew, was the reason she cried when she turned her back on Hamton in the hallway. Her certainty had been affronted. She no longer knew how Hamton felt about their time together. Did he not admit that he hadn't realized it was a date?

But the most painful question of all — like it always is — was why? Why did Hamton go and do all that? Why did he allow Monty that sick display of pain and self-disregard? And why, _why_ couldn't Hamton do Fifi the simple courtesy of explaining himself? Hadn't _she_ been open with him on their date? She had told him how her parents had fallen in love, how her mother used to tease her father and playfully kiss him, and how he had kissed her back. She had never told _anyone_ else that story, not even Babs and Shirley.

She moved on.

The cold wind blew across the city street and Fifi flinched as her eyes, which were now suddenly wet, stung as though they had been pinched by cold fingers. She ran her furry palm across her face, her scarf flapping against her shoulder as the wind breathed its howling chill.

By the time Fifi reached the long wooden fence surrounding the Acme City Dump, the pang in her head felt blunt. It would be a relief to go to bed early and not have to think about any of this for a couple hours. Although . . . would she really feel any better if she was well rested?

What was she going to do when she saw Hamton tomorrow at school? Refuse to talk to him? Frown in disgust at his poor choices? Ignore him completely? Owing to the fact that they had the same friends, this last option was impossible. Plus, the idea of how sad it would probably make Hamton. . . . Fifi pushed that thought aside, sickened with herself.

She _has_ to talk to Hamton. She has to know why, and if she has to . . . she will tell Hamton why it's so important she know his reasons for going to Monty's.

Fifi's head ached again. Groaning, she pressed her hand to her face. _Oh, zis is going to be difficult. Ow…_

With no desire to think about tomorrow, she turned and walked in through the gap in the fence and onto the Dump's dark, snowy ground. The wind blew through the slats in the fence, making a soft high-pitched kind of whistle. Thankfully, Fifi would not hear it when she got into her Cadillac.

She closed her eyes in bliss. Her home was right in front of her, her warm, cozy, quiet —

"Hey, Fifi!" cried two voices.

Fifi jumped and took in such a large gasp of cold air that she choked. Her tail going rigid, she turned sharply towards her car where two people in winter coats were standing near the mailbox.

"Babs? Shirley?" Fifi exclaimed, bewildered. "What are you two doing here?"

"W-we were w-wondering if we could t-talk to you," Babs replied, her teeth chattering. "Inside, p-preferably," she added, rubbing her long pink ears, trying to warm them.

Fifi stood there, confused, eyeing her two friends. Babs was breathing into her furry pink hands, and Shirley was rubbing her feathery ones down her coat's forearms, wincing at the constant gusts passing over the city.

How long had they been waiting out here?

Fifi rushed forward and unlocked the Cadillac's passenger door. She held it open and Babs and Shirley both rushed inside. Fifi stepped in afterward and slammed the door shut. The cries of the wind died instantly.

Fifi flipped on the inside lights, folded her white scarf, then placed it atop her dresser, basking in the car's wonderful warmth. It made her want to go to sleep right then and there.

"Le sigh," she breathed, happy to be home. Two more relieved sighs followed after and Fifi's homecoming felt suddenly diminished.

Babs had sunk down onto one the car's soft cushioned seats, her eyes closed, her long ears stretched out, and looked so relaxed she might melt. Shirley was levitating cross-legged near Babs, her face tranquil and drinking in the temperature.

Fifi allowed them to stay that way for a couple minutes, taking the time to ponder the new thoughts that added to the ones she had been dreading. Why had Babs and Shirley been waiting outside her home? It was 8:30 at night; shouldn't they both be at home studying for their Cartoon Exams? What was so important that it couldn't wait until morning when they all walked to school?

But Fifi had a strong suspicion she knew exactly what it was Babs and Shirley wanted to discuss. She did, after all, get stopped unexpectedly by Plucky a mere fifteen minutes ago. . . .

Her thoughts of the restaurant caused Fifi's stomach to growl, loud enough to alert Babs and Shirley back to the present.

It occurred then to Fifi that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. She had had no appetite for lunch and her conflicting thoughts of Hamton were more than enough to chew on throughout the evening. Feeling peckish, she went and microwaved a large bowl of butterless popcorn. She took a few hot mouthfuls before offering the snack to Babs and Shirley.

"No thanks, Fifi," said Babs politely, waving her hand. "You need it more than we do."

"Yeah, I mean, skipping lunch?" frowned Shirley, shaking her head and levitating down to take a seat beside Babs. "You must've, like, had a lot going through your head to ignore your hunger."

"You have no clue," said Fifi bluntly. As her head gave another sharp pulse, she took another large bite of popcorn, chewed, and swallowed, fighting the urge to flinch from the pain. "So . . . what do you two need to talk about? Hamton, by any chance?"

Babs and Shirley both exchanged a surprised look, then gazed back to Fifi who raised an eyebrow.

"Uh...," Babs chuckled, smiling guiltily. "Yeah, kind of."

"Is Buster, by any chance, waiting outside, too?" Fifi asked curtly, and she glanced to her windows which showed the snow-covered Dump.

"No...," said Babs, confused. "Why would he?"

"Because," Fifi retorted, "before we left work, Plucky stopped me and talked about Hamton. Did you all plan something again?" she asked, annoyed.

"Well . . . sort of," said Babs, rubbing the car's soft carpet with her large rabbit foot. "But it's just me and Shirley here, Fifi. Buster went home after me and him left the Mall."

"We're just here to try and help you out," Shirley clarified. "Just me and Babs, nobody else."

Fifi ate another mouthful of popcorn, feeling resentful. She was very tired right now and wished more than ever that Babs and Shirley could've saved this until morning.

To add to her annoyance, she remembered that neither Babs, Shirley, nor any of her other friends had told her about Hamton's little trip to Monty's mansion. They had had a whole Sunday to inform her, as well as do so on their walk to school earlier this past morning, yet they didn't, and _now_ they wanted to talk?

She should've felt angry, she could've refused, but . . .

Fifi closed her eyes tightly and breathed through her nose. _Calm down_ , she thought _. Calm down . . . zey are my friends._

Besides, maybe Babs and Shirley could help with the ache in her head and center. Girls had a way of understanding each other, after all. Maybe a little talk with her gal pals was just what the doctor ordered. . . .

"So..." said Babs, her tone hopeful. "Anything you want to talk about, Fifi?"

* * *

Neither Babs nor Shirley interrupted Fifi as she spoke, which she was thankful for. It was an immense relief to express her thoughts about Hamton to them, her two friends whom she could be totally open with and discuss without fear of judgement or being misunderstood. Regardless, however, it wasn't exactly easy.

Fifi still had no clue what to think or feel about Hamton. A part of her wanted to scream at him for his stupidity while, at the same time, she wanted to find a reason _not_ to be angry or disappointed by his actions.

When she finished, Fifi fell back against her smooth car seat, feeling drained. She stared tiredly up at the Cadillac's ceiling. It was covered in posters of attractive male skunks — athletes, models, movie stars, all staring down at her with those cool, half-smiles.

Closing her eyes tightly, Fifi pressed her hands to her temples. Her brain felt as though it had run a mile. Wearily, she straightened up and looked at Babs and Shirley.

"Well?" she asked expectantly.

Babs and Shirley glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

"Just so we have the gist of it, Fifi..." said Babs, with the expression of one trying analyze something complex, "you're upset because Hamton went to work for Monty on the same day you and he planned a date?"

" _And_ ," Shirley added, eyeing Fifi critically, "your aura's all dreary because you think he put that job ahead of his date with you?"

"Oui!" shouted Fifi, letting out a loud groan which startled Babs and Shirley. "I do not understand! And Hamton will not tell me!"

"Deep breath, girlfriend, deep breath," said Shirley, holding out her hands.

Fifi steadied herself and waited patiently for any kind of answer.

"Well, Fifi," said Babs, her voice friendly, "it's understandable why you would feel annoyed with Hamton for taking a job from Monty. I mean, even people who aren't from Acme Acres know better than to go anywhere near that buck-toothed rat."

Fifi gave a light smile at this remark.

"As for why Hamton went there..." Babs stopped short and sighed. "Fifi, don't get yourself all stressed out about that. Yeah, it was a stupid thing to do, but we all do stupid things once in a while. Why he took the job, who knows? But come on. We know Hamton. He's not a desperate idiot, and he's most certainly not greedy. He would never go and take a job from Monty unless he had a really good reason to."

"Which is what?" asked Fifi, feeling impatient.

Babs' gaze drifted to the nearby car window, then back at Fifi. "Who knows? Like I said, we all do stupid things — boys especially. But please, don't be mad at Hamton, Fifi. He's really, really sorry that it upset you, you know that he is."

Fifi allowed these words to sink in, and they did so uncomfortably. Now that someone else was stating aloud what Fifi already knew deep down, the feeling seemed to finally take effect.

Fifi _did_ know Hamton regretted what happen. Perhaps part of her didn't wish to think so because it would justify the irritation she felt. But that was deluding herself; Hamton _did_ regret making her upset. That was perfectly clear.

And the way he looked when she shouted at him. . . . A twinge of guilt washed over Fifi, making the popcorn she ate churn horribly in her stomach.

"On to the second question," said Shirley promptly.

She levitated from her seat and hovered in the car space between the two girls so that they formed a kind of triangle.

"As for Hamton putting his job before his time with you. . . ." Shirley crossed her arms and shook her head in a half-bemused way. "Come on, girl," Shirley said kindly, "Hamton would never do that. You were the bigger picture to him that day. Remember? He said he wouldn't have missed it for anything. That time with Monty was just a little side note. Totally not worth remembering."

"He took a big risk, zhough, Shirley!" Fifi interjected. "If it had been me —"

"If it _had_ been you," Shirley cut across calmly, "then you would know that, if the reason for doing it wasn't good enough, you would drop what you were doing and go straight home. Hamton's a tough pig, Fifi. Sure, he's pretty much a softie and not all that strong, but he can get through _anything_ with the right motivation."

"But _why_ did Hamton do it?" Fifi snapped irritably to the two of them. "Why is zat so difficult for everyone to answer?"

For a couple heavy seconds, Shirley seemed strained to give a response. Fifi stared. This behavior did not normally suit Shirley. . . .

"I, like, don't know, Fifi," she said quietly. "Like Babs said, a boy's brain can be outta whack sometimes. Trust me: being Plucky's girlfriend, I know this as a fact. But that doesn't mean Hamton wasn't thinking about _you_. Regardless of why it happened, he still remembered his date with you. He still pulled through the pain and went to meet you, because his time with you was that important to him."

Shirley floated back over to Babs and lowered herself gently onto the seat.

"So, Fifi?" said Babs hopefully. "Feeling better?"

Fifi honestly couldn't say she did. She wanted to believe that Hamton's reason for going to Monty's was logical, even though she hadn't a clue what it could be. But Babs' and Shirley's assertions that Hamton cared more about his time with her than the job was so strong that Fifi had no doubt whatsoever. And yet . . . there was something funny there . . . something about Babs' and Shirley's explanations. . . .

Both of them were so determined in Hamton having a good reason that they hardly spoke a word against him other than "boys do stupid things." And as true as that statement certainly was, Fifi thought there was a little too much belief on Hamton's part.

"Fifi?"

She looked up.

"You do trust us, don't you?" Babs asked her tentatively.

Fifi stared with suspicion. What if Babs and Shirley _did_ know why Hamton was doing all this? What if they were keeping secrets from her like before?

But . . . no, Fifi thought. Babs and Shirley would tell her. If it was really, super important, if Hamton was being insincere, or if it involved her somehow, Babs and Shirley would definitely tell her. They were both confident when they emphasized Hamton's goodness, and she should too.

"Oui," she said finally. "Of course I do, mon amis."

Both Babs and Shirley looked thankful.

With a deep sigh, Fifi leaned back in her seat and stared down at the carpet this time.

"I wish I had not yelled at Hamton," she admitted, "and I am touched he still went out with me despite being in pain. But . . . is it really so hard zat he could not tell me why? Does he think I will be mad if he tells me?"

Babs and Shirley didn't respond with anything other than a quick, sad glance at each other.

A few moments went by where the girls just sat there, all three apparently thinking of something else to say.

"Uh . . . Fifi?" asked Babs.

"Hmm?"

"If you don't mind me asking, what exactly inspired you to ask Hamton out on a date in the first place?"

"Oh, I do not know, really. . . . I was theenking about Hamton ze night before I asked, and I . . . thought of some theengs . . . . Our Prom Night, all our adventures with each other on _Tiny Toons_ , the Friday he walked me home after Monty made me cry . . . and zen I just . . . I just had a sudden feeling, and I wanted to understand it."

Fifi mentally slapped herself for how feeble this explanation must've sounded.

"And that's what you talked to Pepe about, right?" asked Babs. "When you asked to be excused in Exploding Cakes last Friday?"

"Oui," Fifi nodded. "I asked him for his opinion and he agreed zat I should go ahead with ze date. I did not say it was with Hamton, zhough. All I told Pepe was zat ze boy I wanted to ask out was not. . ." Fifi paused, then slowly finished, "was . . . not a skunk. . . ."

Fifi felt her stomach clench and she let the popcorn in her hand drop back into the bowl. The heavy silence made the atmosphere of the usual cozy home feel suddenly unwelcome.

Anxiously, Fifi glanced up at her two friends. Babs and Shirley were eyeing her, not with shock or displeasure, but with some other emotion that made them not want to blink.

Fifi hated it. It was like being back inside Pepe Le Pew's classroom again, consulting him about her feelings and how she should go about to understand them.

"Fifi..." said Babs gently.

Fifi bowed her head, averting Babs' sympathy. She could not stand having her two best friends look at her like that. She expected any moment to be scolded, even though a part of her brain felt suddenly defiant.

"Hey . . . girlfriend. . ." Shirley said, gently. "You can talk to us."

"I should not have done it!" Fifi said abruptly, glaring down at the carpet. "I was stupid!"

"About what?" asked Babs, surprised by this sudden change in attitude.

Her fists clenched, Fifi bellowed, "About theenking zat asking out Hamton was a good idea!"

She breathed heavily as Babs and Shirley sat there, wide-eyed and completely taken aback.

"Fifi..." Babs said, sounding shocked. "You can't mean —"

"What was I _theenking_?" she scowled, pressing her hands to her cranium. "Hamton must have thought I was desperate, ze way I sprung ze date on him!"

"No, Fifi!" Babs said, waving her hands desperately. "Hamton was happy that you asked him out! He was thrilled!"

"Yeah, girl!" said Shirley, and she quickly floated from her seat over to Fifi's side. "You weren't wrong. You were right to follow what you felt. What other way could you understand it?"

"Fifi. . ." said Babs soothingly, and she too got up and stood in front of her dear friend. "Don't feel ashamed for the way you feel. This is the first step. Me and Shirley felt it before, too. You're just. . ." Babs seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say. "You're starting to see things differ — Fifi?"

Fifi had winced and was crouching in her seat, her teeth gritted. She was aware of only two things: Shirley's hand on her back and a horrible, heavy pang inside her cranium. Her headache had escalated and was becoming so tense that Fifi could hardly think.

"Fifi?" Babs knelt down to her level. "Fifi! Are you okay?"

"Non…" Fifi muttered. Her head was blazing with pain. "Headache. Very . . . very bad." She cringed again with a whimper. It felt as though a sludge hammer had gone to work inside her skull. Was this how Plucky felt whenever he got smashed by an anvil?

"Come on, girlfriend," Shirley whispered, grabbing hold of Fifi's purple furred arm. "Let's get you to bed."

Slowly and delicately, Fifi got to her feet and let Shirley and Babs lead her over to where the two of them had just been sitting. Fifi laid down gently and curled up on the long stretch of cushions, feeling for her heart-shaped pillow. Her eyes hardly open, she saw Babs push the red pillow towards her and Fifi wrapped her arms around it, pressing the side of her cheek into its soft texture. Every muscle in her body seem to sink into the comfort.

"Merci," she whispered to them.

"What are friends for?" said Babs gently as she and Shirley laid a blanket atop their friend. Fifi felt them give her shoulder an affectionate pat. "You have a good long sleep. Don't you worry anymore, okay? We'll see you tomorrow."

Fifi didn't move from her position, but managed to give Babs a smile, hoping she understood it to mean 'Merci'.

"Here, Fifi," said Shirley. "This'll help."

Fifi opened one eye and saw that Shirley had pulled something out from her sweatshirt's pouch. Only when she grabbed a match to light it did Fifi see that it was an incense stick.

"Don't worry," said Shirley. "Its scent is, like, designed for sleep. It'll just waft around and ease you along. So just relax and let your dreams come."

She stuck the stick's end into a nearby purple, grape-scented candle, where it continued to burn slowly, a light trail of smoke waving on the air. Fifi caught a whiff of something delicate and soothing.

"Good night, mon amis," said Fifi, and with that, she closed her eyes for the final time that night, hearing the car door open and shut gently as Babs and Shirley walked out.

* * *

The two girls walked to the edge of the city where the country road led off to the forest and neighboring suburbs. A cold, howling wind blew in their faces as they went, and over in the distance, the Acme Loo Bell tower rang out nine times.

"I don't know about you," Shirley said to Babs, "but I think I might be getting a headache myself from all of this. Seriously, I think I, like, get what Plucky means when he says we girls chat about the most confusing things."

"Yeah, me too," Babs agreed, massaging her head with one of her long ears.

"Well, no use worrying now," Shirley shrugged, and she looked up to the sky. There wasn't a star anywhere amongst the shifting clouds. "History is, like, written, and we've done our best. I just hope this thread of fate won't be too hard on Fifi."

Frowning, she kicked a bit of snow with her webbed foot. It drifted up into the air like white dust and vanished a second later. "This whole problamo would've gone a lot smoother if we just told Fifi the reason Hamton went to Monty's."

"Yeah, it probably would've," Babs agreed. "But we're Hamton's friends, and we promised we wouldn't say anything. I just hope Hamton manages to find the courage to tell Fifi outright how he feels. He's really going overboard with this whole perfume escapade."

"Yeah, so true," Shirley sighed. "But . . . though he's sensitive and not as stupid as most boys are, Hamton's _still_ a boy. And boys' heads get as kookoo as girls' do when the love bug comes biting."

"Yeah . . ." Babs' gaze fell to the ground as her warm, pink furred hands moved mechanically to her coat pockets. "Affection _can_ play with a person's head. We just got done talking to the girl who threw her entire summer away to get some celebrity's autograph."

After a few moments in which the cold wind blew and the many treetops creaked, the two seemed to realize they had nothing more to say.

"Well . . . good night, Shirley."

"Night, Babs. Join me and Plucky for some hot chocolate tomorrow morning?"

"Sure. That's sounds good. See you then."

The two girls set off, one towards the forest, the other towards the house on the hill, both worrying for their friend and what they could only imagine she was going through.

* * *

The cold night howled across the quiet city in a relentless breeze. The wind scraped the Cadillac's sides, but Fifi didn't hear it. She laid on the long comfortable car seat, gripping the inside of her blankets and holding them close, her face screwed up and eyes shut tight. The incense stick had long since burned out, but its aroma still enveloped the car's interior.

Breathing lightly through her nose, her chest rising and falling slowly, Fifi detected a mixture of cooling spice that seemed to warm after a few seconds, leaving a steady sensation that produced an image of mist.

The vapor, which hung in the air, seemed to glow like a hundred tiny fireflies. The more they glowed, the more the light seemed to merge until the surroundings came into view and the peaceful mist melted away to reveal a bright stretch of wooden floor, neighbored by long, red overhanging curtains.

Fifi glanced around. She was standing on a large, well-lit stage. Three overhanging lights were suspended from the ceiling; the middle one shining down to where she stood. The painted backdrop at her side depicted a Spanish city with red, orange, and yellow colors — it gave off an easy, comforting ambience that was almost festive.

Fifi turned to where the audience would be. The seats were all empty. Nobody was watching. No one else was with her on stage.

She looked down at herself, at the clothes she only just realized she was wearing. It was a bright red dress whose long skirt flowed with each movement, putting Fifi in mind of a gypsy.

Then, as though the very thought of the word 'gypsy' had triggered it, Fifi heard a familiar melody, coming in every direction. Soft at first . . . and then a voice . . . _her_ voice . . . singing. . . .

It was a melody she knew personally . . . the song she had sung before. . . .

 _Habanera_.

Standing there, clueless, waiting for what she knew not, Fifi listened to the singing that now accompanied the aria's music.

And then, without warning, someone appeared on stage.

It was Hamton.

He was dressed in black, a Spanish soldier's uniform, smiling affectionately.

At once a great passion, a sensation Fifi hardly understood swelled through her like a warm breeze. Gracefully, she stepped over to Hamton and stretched out her silky, purple furred arms. He reached out his long-sleeved arms, and together, they took each other's hands.

Hamton placed his hand on her waist. Fifi placed her hand on his shoulder. Together, they began to dance.

They moved in sync. A step forward then right to the side, a step back then left to the side, and then they turned and repeated their steps. One, two, and three; one, two, and three. It was steady and calm. It wasn't passionately crazed, but it was, nevertheless, warm and alive.

And for a while, Fifi was content. Though it was simple dance, it felt wholesome and perfect. The rest of the world seemed distant as the two were lost in each other's eyes and steps. Their dance was all that was.

As _Habanera_ played on, the light around the stage began to dim, except for the middle light where Hamton and Fifi glided and stepped, closely and happily.

But then the song halted, and the mood died.

The entire stage was plunged into darkness, all except for the single overhanging light which illuminated the soldier and the gypsy.

Each holding a hand, Hamton and Fifi stopped dancing and glanced around, confused for why their dance was paused.

It was like staring into a completely starless sky. Fifi vaguely wondered if she and Hamton would fall if they stepped outside the circle of light.

There was nothing except herself and Hamton, and though no path could be distinguished amongst the black unknown, Fifi was not frightened. Quite the contrary; She felt safe knowing that someone else was with her. In return, she gave Hamton's hand a light squeeze, to let him know that she was still there with him.

"OLÉ!" cried a masculine voice that made Fifi jump.

From out of nowhere, a new song started to play, and this one had a different tone. Its tempo was slightly faster and its mood felt vibrant, exciting. It surged through Fifi like pleasant electricity.

A tune as famous as _Habanera_ , by the very same composer.

 _Votre Toast_.

Then, though no light appeared, another actor joined the stage from out of the black. He was perfectly visible, as though his presence alone were enough to make Fifi see him.

It was a matador, wearing the traditional black hat, colorful frilly clothes, and a long red cloth draped over his arm.

It was a skunk . . . a very attractive, handsome skunk . . . his fur a shiny black and white, his face flawless and smooth, and his eyes two dark stones that glimmered like the night.

Mesmerized, her heart pounding with longing, hardly aware of what she was doing, Fifi let go of Hamton's hand and rushed away, out from the lighted circle.

"Fifi! Where are you going?" Hamton called after her. "Come back!"

Fifi didn't answer his plea, nor did she stop. She was bound for the gorgeous image in front of her. He was absolute perfection, as though sculpted from marble. His expression was cool and care-free, just like another skunk she saw years ago . . . . A skunk whom she had once asked for something . . . something written perhaps. . . . A signature?

Fifi leapt forward and latched herself to the skunk matador in a tight embrace. Beaming, she closed her eyes and cooed at having the tall dark stranger, the perfect man she had searched high and low for.

"Oh, mon amour. My sweet, petit, buff trophy man. I thought I would never find you!"

How long she stood there in the dark, voicing her endless list of French endearments, Fifi didn't know. And it occurred to her all of a sudden, like a slap to the face, that she could no longer hear Hamton. Curious but happy, Fifi pulled her face away from the matador and looked back.

Her smile fell.

Hamton wasn't there anymore, and neither was the comfortable circle of light that gave some sense of place.

But what did that matter? She wasn't going to fall, and she wasn't lost. She was with someone, _her_ someone.

Fifi turned back to the matador clutched in her arms, but when she looked at the face, her euphoria vanished like a soap bubble on a blade.

She shirked back, shocked and speechless. The matador's appearance had changed. Fifi was now staring, not at a male skunk, but at someone whose periwinkle hair and violet eyes matched her own. She had the same purple and white fur, the same curves, the same fluffy tail, the same everything. . . .

She cackled wickedly.

" _I see London, I see France_ ," she spoke tauntingly, " _I see a girl who turned from ze dance."_

Fifi felt horrified; she couldn't understand why. It was only herself. Every detail was the same; there was nothing disturbing which stood out, nothing that was visibly monstrous. Regardless, Fifi wanted more than anything to get away. But she couldn't move; her feet were rooted to the black nothingness below her. She was trapped, all alone in the empty space.

The Fifi in front stepped closer. She looked sadistic.

" _I see petty, I speak fact, you are ze reason for what you lack_."

Fifi's heart was pounding with such a fierce rhythm that it hurt. She couldn't breathe. She was going to suffocate. She wanted to scream for help but there was nobody who would hear her. Hamton was gone. She was completely alone with nobody but herself, who was now an inch away, smiling deviously, her cold eyes boring into her like knives.

" _You know it is true, your friends know it too. You will never win ze prize, for ze thing in your way . . . is YOU. Surprise, surprise...Leettle Carmen_."

And with a strangled gasp, the world shattered.

* * *

Fifi shot straight up, her face covered in sweat, breathing heavily as though she had almost drowned in a dark ocean.

She was back in her Cadillac. It was dimly lit, the windows were tinted with blue and coated in frost, and for some reason, the car was warmer than Fifi found comfortable.

When her heart managed to slow down back to its normal pace, Fifi spotted something out of the corner of her eye . . . something black and white that nearly made her heart burst into a run again.

She turned sharply upward, holding her breath, but then sighed with relief.

It was only the posters hanging from the car roof. All the male skunks were completely still, unchanging and unblinking, as distant as the dream that just ended.

Fifi fell back onto the blankets sprawled out on the car seat. For a moment she had thought she was staring into the eyes of the handsome matador again, fearing her own image would take its place and advance on her with that awful glare.

Wearily, Fifi sat up again, then quickly clutched her forehead with both hands. The melodies of _Habanera_ and _Votre Toast_ were still playing inside her memory, clearly and distinctive, then interchanging and dissonant.

Fifi winced and cringed. Her head started to ache with a shooting pain. Stubbornly, she forced her brain to drown out the two famous opera songs, trying to replace their sound with something else, something simple.

School exams. Fifi still had to study.

The pain shot horribly again.

Her friends, the talk she had last night.

Her gritted her teeth, groaning.

Hamton . . . Hamton in his handsome Spanish uniform . . . his hand in her's . . . his hand around her waist. . . .

The images of the dream flickered past, but the pain continued. Her headache felt as harsh as it did when Babs and Shirley had left the night before.

A bell began to chime in the distance. The low-sounding rings were like jabs to Fifi's brain and she winced at the intervals of each ring. Groaning, Fifi stood up and walked tiredly over to check the clock on the dashboard.

It was 6:00, and, sure enough, the Acme Loo clock tower stopped ringing after its sixth toll.

Fifi approached the car window and looked out through a crack in the frost. The sky above was a dark, clear blue; the stars which had been concealed by gray clouds the night before were visible now — faint little white sparkles in the wide stretch. Most of the tall buildings were still covered in shadows, but the edges and windows of others gleamed as the sun's rays bounced off and onto the quiet snowy streets below.

Fifi leaned her temple against the cold window of her Cadillac, the chill lessening her headache by a margin. She continued to observe the breaking dawn, lightly humming _Habanera_ as the minutes drifted by, her thoughts full of dancing and cruel, childish rhymes.

* * *

 **All comments, positive and constructive, are welcome.**


	32. Pepe Talk

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Many thanks.**

 **I'm so sorry this took me so long to post. I've been horribly sick for a long week, and I'm _still_ coughing. It's made everything quite unhappy, and I had little interest in doing anything. Terribly sorry.**

* * *

 **Chapter 32**

 _Pepe Talk_

 _~Tuesday, Dec. 16th~_

When Hamton set out for school with Furrball on the morning of the 16th, he felt more hopeful than he expected, especially given all that had transpired the previous day. Sure, Monty may have severely damaged his chances of reaching $1500 dollars by this time next week, but he wasn't discouraged, at least not completely.

Along with fixing and replacing the school doors, _and_ helping Pete Puma last night with his cleaning, Hamton only had $378 left to earn. Though the amount would make most other peoples' heads spin, Hamton was powered on as he and Furrball walked from the snow-swept neighborhood and into the frosted, waking city.

 _I can do it_ , he told himself. _I'm so close now! I can make it!_

What really boosted Hamton's confidence, however, was him knowing that he wasn't alone in this endeavor. Furrball seemed to be in a good mood this morning. There was a light bounce to his step and he grinned mildly as he reached the first city block.

Right from the start, Hamton had been thankful for Furrball's help in achieving his goal, but only yesterday did he realize that he never could have made it this far without his furry blue friend. Coming home from school last night, Hamton was delighted to see the spaghetti and meatball dinner Furrball had made him, and what was more, Furrball agreed to be the one to help Pete clean the school this afternoon while Hamton went to help Mary Melody.

These acts and offers made Hamton exceedingly grateful; there was no doubt in his mind that he would've never had a chance without Furrball. In the long run of this whole crazy quest for perfume, never once had his friend complained; never once had he asked for more payment than food and shelter; always, always, he stuck with Hamton and helped him regardless, like an honest, true friend.

With Furrball at his side, Hamton felt stronger, ready to face the day and whatever it offered. Let Monty laugh 'til he turned blue and fainted! It'll be he, Hamton, who laughs last when he buys the Du Coeur in the end!

Hopefully he and Fifi would be back on good terms by then. . . .

The two boys met Buster and Babs, along with Plucky and Shirley, not too far into their usual meeting place before school. Judging by the sweet smell, the four had all finished enjoying some hot chocolate from the nearby coffee house.

"You doing okay, Hamton?" asked Buster, eyeing him as they all started their walk.

"Oh, yeah," he said brightly. "Actually, I'm feeling quite confident."

Furrball meowed in agreement.

"I know I only have a week left," Hamton continued, "but I'm close now. I just got to find enough jobs to raise the last three-hundred. I might just get that perfume for Fifi after all."

"Speaking of Fifi. . ." Babs cut in, sounding hesitant. "Me and Shirley went and talked to her last night. . . ."

Hamton grimaced, seeing the unease in Babs' face. She and Shirley diverted their gaze away as they all pressed on down the sidewalk. As they did, the bounce in Hamton's step seemed to deflate.

"She's still mad at me, isn't she?" he asked drearily. He should've known. . . .

"No," Shirley corrected. "She's not mad, Hamton. Not at _you_ , at least. . . ."

Hamton stared, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Oh . . . she's a bit conflicted with _herself_ , actually," Babs said with a sigh. "She doesn't know how to feel with all that's happening, with all that she's starting to think and feel. She isn't mad at you, Hamton, and she _is_ sorry that she yelled at you yesterday. But she wished you'd tell her why you went to Monty's. And honestly . . . I think you should've."

"But I can't!" Hamton reminded her, trying to sound reasonable. "You guys, you all know I'm trying to surprise her! If I explain —"

"Yeah, _we_ know that, Hamton!" Buster interrupted. "But Fifi doesn't. The fact that we all know and she being the only one who doesn't leaves her in the dark, and, to be honest, I can't help but feel a little sorry for her."

"But-but-" Hamton spluttered, and he halted on the sidewalk, causing the other five to stop as well. "But I'm not trying to make Fifi sad or make her feel left out! I'm trying —"

"We _know_ , Hamton!" Plucky exclaimed. "Geez! Hamton, we know you'd rather sell yourself for bacon than make Fifi cry! We aren't criticizing you, we just...oh, I don't know!" Annoyed, Plucky turned to Babs and Shirley. "You two are better at this! What do you say when you agree with someone but wish things were different?"

Neither Babs nor Shirley answered.

"Guys, come on," said Buster coolly , holding up his hands in peace, "how 'bout we just go and see how Fifi's doing today and work things out from there? No need to get riled up when we don't even know how she's feeling."

Agreeing to this, Hamton and the others continued down the sidewalk, the streetlamps fitted with Christmas lights, green wreathes posted on nearly every door, and golden menorahs gleaming in the windows.

The howling wind from last night had died down into a light breeze, but it was still very cold. Hamton kept his bare hands stuffed deep inside his coat pockets as usual, all the while dreading what he would say to Fifi when he saw her. Was it possible for him to tell Fifi what he was doing without divulging _who_ he was doing it for? Maybe he could explain that he was doing it for a good cause, which wouldn't necessarily be lying; when has it ever been a shameful cause to try and give your heart and soul to somebody important?

Whatever Hamton was going to do, though, he knew he would have to do it soon. The very thought that Fifi might be angry or disappointed with him was its own kind of sickness.

In what felt like mere seconds, the six teenage Toons reached the outside of the Acme City Dump. Hamton took a deep breath of cold air and let it out, bracing himself for whatever lay ahead. Furrball was patting Hamton's shoulder and giving him an encouraging nod, as though saying, "It'll be okay. _You'll_ be okay."

Smiling, albeit a little forcibly, Hamton nodded in return.

The six friends turned at the wooden fence's corner, towards the Dump's entrance where the large sign stood overhead, right over where Fifi always stood waiting for them.

There was nobody there.

Hamton stared at the smooth snowy spot where, a mere three days ago, he and Fifi had slipped and fell into each other's arms. Shaking away his blush, he could make out Fifi's familiar outline floating over his eyes. The lack of her presence was unsettling to him. Turning, he saw too that his friends found Fifi's absence just as odd as he did.

"Maybe she overslept..." said Babs, though her tone made it clear that she had doubts about this.

They all approached the Dump's entrance and looked in. Fifi's Cadillac laid directly ahead, standing out amongst the white snow like a large, pink neon brick.

The wind from last night had blown a dusting of snow over the trodden path Fifi had made over the course of December, but looking down at it, Hamton could see no tracks leading out from the dump. Instead, there were two sets of fresh tracks leading inward, right in the direction of Fifi's immobile home. One pair gave the impression of shoes, the other was barefooted and strikingly similar to Fifi's footprints, though perhaps a little bigger.

There were shadows moving behind the passenger side windows, but Hamton could not make out the familiar purple and white colors, nor the large fluffy tail he adored.

He and his friends glanced at each other, knowing that something was off.

The car doors opened. Two people stepped out, one after the other. They walked down the Dump's trail, over their tracks, and stopped in front of the six teenage Toons.

It was Pepe Le Pew and Granny, the latter wearing her nurse's cap.

"Good morning, my pupils of comedy," said Pepe Le Pew, his tone rather low. "Or . . . razher I wish it was," and he turned to look back at the pink Cadillac, his eyes full of regret.

Before Hamton could voice his concern, Babs beat him to it. "Where's Fifi?"

Granny, who had her school nurse's medical bag clutched against her winter coat, sighed and responded, "Oh, I'm afraid Miss La Fume developed a rather strong migraine last night. I've supplied her with some aspirin to relieve the pain, but I'm having her take the day off to rest. There's no need to worry, my dears. She should be better by tomorrow. Although, I must say," Granny added while adjusting her glasses, "I have hardly ever seen someone her age get a headache quite that severe."

Hamton stepped to the side and looked around Granny to the pink Cadillac, imagining a girl lying down, her face wincing in pain. A sudden sickness, which seemed to have no clear source, bubbled inside Hamton's stomach like horrible hot lead.

Hesitantly, he asked, "Does Fifi know what might have caused her headache?"

Pepe and Granny both looked at him.

The latter said, "Oh, it could be a number of reasons, Hamton. The Cartoon Exams always cause some stress whenever they approach, not to mention all the fuss and overexertion of the holidays can make even the sanest Toons run a little cuckoo. As for what's bothering poor Fifi, I'm sure it will smooth itself out in time." She paused, then added, "Eventually."

"Yeah..." Hamton said, his insides squirming.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Pepe Le Pew staring at him. The skunk teacher's eyes were perfectly still and his face calm, but Hamton thought there was something to his look that told him Pepe wanted to say something, but couldn't in the presence of all the others.

Hamton and his friends walked the remaining distance to school with Granny and Pepe at their sides. It felt strange, walking to school without Fifi. Hamton and his friends hardly ever got sick; being a cartoon character usually came with near-all-powerful immune systems (something Plucky sometimes wished wasn't true so he could play Hooky for once in his life).

Fifi's absence mingled with the guilt Hamton felt growing inside his chest. Was _he_ the reason she had a headache? Was she suffering because he refused to tell her his reasons for taking a job from Monty? How much worse were things going to get between him and her if he didn't learn to speak his feelings?

And to think, Hamton had felt so energized, so confident in this morning's promise. Now, however, he too felt like calling in sick just so he could sulk on his couch at home and desperately think of a way to make up with Fifi.

When they entered AcmeLoo, Hamton and his friends deposited their coats into their lockers. He grabbed a book titled _"Hard Knuckles and Loud Chuckles"_ from the pile in his locker's bottom and set out for Physical Comedy with his friends. But before Hamton could get far from his locker, Pepe Le Pew said, "One moment, Hamton, s'il vous plaît."

Furrball and the others looked behind but didn't stop walking, curious and slightly worried.

"Yes, Professor Le Pew?" Hamton asked, anxiously. Was this it, he thought? Was Pepe going to blame him for his favorite pupil's ailment?

But Pepe did not look angry. When he spoke, it was quite calm and friendly. "Hamton, may I please have a word with you after lunch? Zhere are some theengs I would like to talk to you about."

Hamton swallowed, having a very good idea what it was, or rather _who_ , Pepe wanted to discuss.

However, he had no reason to argue against this request, and said, "S-sure . . . okay. . . ."

"Fantastic," said Pepe with a satisfied smile. "I shall see you in my classroom after lunch. Now run along, Hamton. You do not want to miss any of Monsieur Porky's signature seminars of stuttering."

* * *

The next few hours were some of the longest Hamton had ever endured at Acme Looniverisity. Time seemed to have slowed down, but, as Hamton sat in his desk, blindly scribbling notes, the second hands on the clocks never faltered in their never-ending cycle, never falling short or speeding up (unless the context of the situation called for it, of course).

After an hour's discussion on how to make falling into holes seem funny, Hamton and his friends moved on through the morning with Hound Teasing and Spotlight Stealing. Hound Teasing was so repetitive in its methods that Hamton was able to mouth the actions word for word while keeping a hand pressed to his bored face.

"Sneak up to dog. Spank with fence post. Run for your life. Stop when you hear the dog yelp. Rinse, repeat, and regret later down the road when the dog grows smart enough to untie himself and then bite and shake you loose until you're ragged, bitten, and empty of all stuffing like a ruined couch cushion."

See? Simple.

In addition to boredom, Spotlight Stealing also brought with it some embarrassment. Professor Daffy yelled twice at Hamton to get his mind out of the gutter and focus on what was going on in front of him.

"Geez!" Daffy huffed. "It's bad enough when audiences do it, but as your teacher, I demand attention! I demand eye contact! I demand the Constitution have you all abandon your cares, your families, your own well-being and focus your whole and complete selves on me! This is _my_ class! It's about me! ME! Me-me-me-me- _me_!"

As Daffy blathered while molting some of his black feathers in dramatic irritation, Hamton sighed and dropped his sight back to his notebook. He had hardly written anything except for _"_ Remember...it's all about you. Forget everyone else. Push them aside — literally if you have to."

But that idea just wasn't possible for Hamton. He could never push Fifi out from his mind even if he wanted to. She may very well own a piece of his brain.

And so he sat there, watching a self-absorbed, obnoxious duck blather while his mind drifted and dwelled on what had become his daily worries. When he wasn't thinking about Fifi, Hamton found himself desperately plotting how on Earth he would raise the last three hundred dollars for the Du Coeur.

Not to mention there was that meeting with Pepe Le Pew that worried him. . . .

Pepe Le Pew, the school's professor of French and Smellology, which Hamton and his friends didn't have this semester, was, in Hamton's opinion, a skilled teacher and an overall good Toon and person. Though a little obsessed with romance novels and black and white chick flicks (most involving cats), Pepe always did his job well, was respected amongst the students and faculty, and was very stylish with his comedy and French phrases.

On the other hand, Hamton had never exchanged much more than a few 'hellos' with the skunk teacher. He and Pepe got along fine, but they were little more than common acquaintances.

In contrast, Fifi viewed Pepe like a second father, being the one who trained her to sing and whom she always went to when needing a private word. Heck, when he met up with Hamton and Fifi on their date he immediately wanted to talk to Fifi alone, and she went along without a second thought. Today, however, it was Hamton who was going to go and have a long talk with Pepe — a talk that most certainly had everything to do with his favorite student.

These thoughts whirled around in Hamton so much that he hardly heard the bell ring or realized he had just walked through the lunch line, a blank look etched on his face. His mind woke to the dank smells of mystery meat, wafting up from his tray like an age old, soggy wet sponge.

At their table, Buster and Babs had clothes pins over their noses as they ate their lunch in misery. Plucky was gritting his teeth, straining to saw his slice of mystery meat in half, but it was so well-done that his butter knife was scraping the surface and causing sparks to flicker off. Shirley, being a vegetarian, refused the awful lunch out of principle and simply took to nibbling on her napkin. Furrball ate his slice of meat calmly, due to, Hamton knew, having eaten worse things during his times in the city alleyways.

Hamton began to eat, too, because it gave him something to do.

Babs let out a loud swallow and gasp as though she had choked. Pulling off her clothes pin, she spat out, "Yelch! Why does Mama Bear serve this stuff? It could pass as fertilizer!"

After a shivering swallow which shook his clothes pin away, Buster shrugged his shoulders. "The school's got to get rid of it somehow, Babsy. Mama Bear hates serving it to us, but as the school cook, she has to make what the school board tells her to."

"They really should fire the writers for making such a rule," said Babs, slumping forward with her fist to her furry, white cheek. Offhandedly, she said, "Not talking about you, though, Mr. Page. By all means, keep on writing."

"Like, normally," Shirley spoke up, "I think it's a crime to throw away food when others are starving, but _this_ ," she pointed with revulsion at the inedible mess, "how can they call it food? And how can _you_ two eat it?"

Hamton and Furrball looked up, both having taken another bite. With a simultaneous shrug, they swallowed, suppressed a shudder, and each took another bite in silence.

"You okay, Hamton?" asked Buster, an eyebrow raised.

Hamton took a long drink of milk and set it down. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine," he said, though this wasn't very honest.

He had no clue how he felt. A part of him didn't want to be here. He was hungry, but the food did little more than fill his stomach, which still felt heavy from this morning. He eyed the spot where Fifi would've been sitting, and at once, all of the rest of his appetite seemed to vanish.

"Hamton, don't go blaming yourself," Babs criticized, having noticed where he was looking. "It's not your fault that Fifi's sick today."

"Yeah, there's no way you could've given her that headache," said Plucky, tossing his worn-down butter knife over his shoulder and hitting an out-of-sight sheep. "Trust me, I know all about giving people headaches. You _really_ got to put in your work and hit the right spot to give someone a real head-splitter, and you've done squat."

"Just give her a day; Fifi will come around." Assured Buster. "You'll see, Hamton. She cares too much to stay mad at you."

Their words managed to make Hamton smile, though it felt weighted. "Thanks, guys."

Instinctively, he checked the cafeteria's wall clock. It read 11:45.

Having no more appetite and not wanting to put the moment off any longer, Hamton decided then that it was time to leave.

"See you guys in class," he said to his friends. Standing up, he brought his tray with his half-eaten mystery meat to the window, waved to Mama Bear who smiled back, and left the cafeteria.

He walked down the school hallway until he came to a newly refurbished door that read:

PROF. PEPE LE PEW

SMELLOLOGY & FRENCH

Hamton took a deep breath.

"Well . . . here's hoping for the best . . . whatever that is. . . ."

Slowly, he raised his fist. Then he knocked.

"Come in," came a familiar French accent — so very much like Fifi's, except male.

Taking one final deep breath, Hamton turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The classroom's design was similar to every other: rows of desks lined the room's center and bookshelves stood along the walls. But besides this, Pepe had gone and decorated his walls with posters relating to his subjects: pictures and diagrams of noses, trashcans and flowers, scenery from French cities and country sides, French quotes and their English translations, and even, Hamton couldn't help smirking, a few couples whispering romantic exchanges.

"Ah, bonjour, Hamton," Pepe said with a smile. He was seated at his desk, a romance novel in his hands. "You are early."

"Yeah...," said Hamton hesitantly.

"Please, have a seat." Pepe's hand motioned to a chair in front of his desk, his eyes returning to the page he had been reading.

Hamton complied. The desk that separated him and Pepe held a large stack of books, including guides to the olfactory sciences and a cluster of romance novels. And on the desk's side, standing on its own end table, was a colorful ceramic vase full of warm-scented flowers.

Pepe must've been absorbed in the story before Hamton walked in, because he hurriedly finished whatever paragraph he was on, his eyes shifting from side to side very quickly.

Waiting, Hamton folded his hands together and sat up straight in his chair, glancing around the room. The sweet aroma of the flowers, plus all the posters of couples and the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows, gave the place a very comfortable atmosphere. Hamton thought it would be a good place to eat lunch or sit down and do homework.

At hearing the paperback book close and Pepe clearing his throat, Hamton was brought back to earth with a sudden lurch. In an attempt to ease himself of his mounting anxiety, Hamton gripped his hands together and smiled politely. It did not work as well as he had hoped.

Pepe too folded his hands and began to speak. "Thank you for coming, Hamton. I apologize if my request cut your lunchtime short."

"Oh, that's okay," said Hamton truthfully. "I'm not really hungry today. Mystery meat, you know. . . ."

"I would razher not know, to be honest," said Pepe, smiling lightly. "Now, Hamton . . ." He looked as though he were about to move into a very sensitive topic and sounded sorry for doing so. "Do you know why I requested you come so we could talk?"

Hamton stared at Pepe's kind but concerned face and felt the air in his lungs slowly evaporate. A lump seemed to form in his throat, but he still managed to answer.

"Yes . . . I think I do know. . . ."

Pepe's eyes were soft and affectionate. It was remarkable how much of Fifi there was in him. He truly was Fifi's mentor, like a second-father. . . .

"As you know, Hamton," said Pepe, looking down at his folded black hands, "Fifi called me and Granny early zis morning to come and help her."

"Yeah. . ." said Hamton, sinking back on his seat, but he had gone as far the chair's back would allow.

"When Fifi called me on ze telephone, me and her had a very interesting discussion." He paused and looked up at Hamton. "Fifi told me zat she is having trouble understanding some theengs. . . ."

Hamton held his breath. He felt like a statue facing an oncoming wrecking-ball.

"Theengs..." Pepe went on, ". . .about you."

And there it was. His worst fears were confirmed.

"Hamton," said Pepe patiently, "I am going to be honest with you, my friend. Fifi is facing a personal crisis. Her headache is a result of zat crisis. She is struggling to comprehend her feelings and it is driving her to sickness. So . . . I must ask you a few theengs, and I plead zat you answer zem."

"I'll . . . do my best," said Hamton, his forehead damp with sweet.

"Merci," said Pepe. "Firstly. . . . Hamton . . . why did you go to Montana Max's house on ze same day you had a date with Fifi? She cannot understand for ze life of her why you did it. And to be honest, neizher can I. You should know —"

"I did it for her!" Hamton blurted.

Pepe froze, his mouth slightly agape.

Hamton, surprised by his own response, felt a small bit of relief telling someone other than his best friends. Calmly, but in no way less than a confession, he went on. "I'm trying to buy Fifi a Christmas gift and Monty offered me five-hundred to go and do all that stuff. I would've never done any of that if it weren't for the payment! I need it to afford the gift I'm trying to buy."

The dreadful weight inside Hamton's stomach seemed to split in half. He took a deep breath that felt cool and friendly.

Meanwhile, Pepe continued to stare as though he were translating the words just spoken.

"And. . ." he said, "zis is why you have been so busy, working all month? Why you put up zhose fliers offering to work for payment?"

"Yes. . ." Hamton answered. "I'm doing it all for Fifi."

"Hamton, what is it zat you are trying to buy? Five-hundred dollars is far more zan enough to buy Fifi a nice gift. And I can tell you, as her mentor, zat she is not, how you say, finicky in ze slightest."

Hamton pondered in his seat. Would it be a good idea to tell someone outside his circle of best friends, and to a teacher no less? He hadn't even told his parents about his personal mission, giving no hint other than he was looking to buy a bottle of perfume.

"If I tell you," said Hamton, his tone serious, "can you promise me that you won't tell _anyone_ outside of this room, least of all Fifi?"

"But why, Hamton?" asked Pepe, sounding concerned.

"I'm trying to surprise her. That's why I didn't tell her why I went to Monty's, plus . . . I'm afraid she might take it the wrong way, thinking that it was because of her that I got hurt. It wasn't!" he told Pepe who was about to talk. "I was stupid, I know! But . . . I want to do this for Fifi."

"But what is it, Hamton?" asked Pepe, looking both curious as well as worried. "What could be worth putting yourself through so much pain?"

With a sigh, Hamton calmly said, "I'm trying to buy Fifi a bottle of perfume." When Pepe's brows furrowed in confusion, Hamton added, "It's called Du Coeur."

From out of nowhere, a record let off an ear-splitting screech.

Pepe's jaw dropped, hitting his desk and knocking over his stack of romance novels. His eyes went wide, his pupils shrunken to pea-sized dots. He was positively shaken; Hamton could've sworn his black fur may have lost some of its sheen.

Hamton held his breath. It felt strangely uplifting to talk about his near-impossible mission to somebody besides his friends, but at the same time, Hamton didn't expect Pepe to take the news with such disbelief.

"D-Du-Du Coeur?" spluttered Pepe, his French accent cracking slightly. "You are trying to buy Fifi a bottle of _Du Coeur_?"

"Y-Yeah. . ?"

Unblinking, Pepe began shaking his head as though this were a joke that seriously misfired on its punch-line.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Hamton said with a weak smile. "I'm quite close to —"

"Hamton!" Pepe cut across him, now sounding very serious. "Zat is ze most popular perfume currently available! Maybe not _ze_ most expensive, but still! Hamton. . ." Pepe's tone was now sympathetic. "One-thousand five-hundred dollars?"

Hamton wanted to laugh. The idea of raising that much money for perfume was, he agreed, quite comical, desperate and fool-hardy. But at the same time, he couldn't help feeling haughty and determined in knowing how close he was to reaching his goal.

Before he could speak, Pepe continued on, his tone almost sad, "Hamton, you do not need zat perfume to let Fifi know —"

"My friends told me the same thing," said Hamton mechanically.

"Your friends know?"

"Of course they do. They even staged an intervention last Sunday, telling me what an idiot I was and saying I'm working myself to the bone for nothing because I don't need the perfume to let Fifi —"

"But you do not!" protested Pepe, shaking his head and frowning.

"I'm still going to try, though," said Hamton resolutely. "I'm under four hundred dollars. Mr. Le Pew, I know I can make it! I'm so close."

There was silence as Pepe continued to stare at Hamton as though he were deserving of the deepest sympathies. Finally, he sighed and his sight fell to his desk, deep in thought.

"Mr. Le Pew?" asked Hamton.

The teacher didn't respond. He seemed conflicted with what he should say.

Finally, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Oh, ze trials of blossoming love," he muttered.

"Huh?" said Hamton. "What was that?"

Pepe looked up, his expression much calmer.

"I can see you are determined," he told him. "You say you only have a few hundred dollars left to earn?"

"Yes," Hamton nodded. "I can make it. I know it."

"Zen..." said Pepe, "I will not say anymore on ze matter. If you wish to go to zhese lengths, who am I to try and stop you? But Hamton, " he added, now sounding serious, "do understand zat no gift, cheap or expensive, will amount to what Fifi longs for ze most. It is not sometheeng zat can be bought and wrapped.

"And," added Pepe, "it goes without saying zat everyone, especially Fifi, would appreciate that you do not go to such lengths again like you did zis past Saturday."

Hamton, having heard this several times before, merely nodded.

"Rest assured, Fifi is no longer angry with you," said Pepe, his voice back to its normal tone. "She has accepted zat, for whatever reason it may be, you must have had good reasons for doing what you did. But Hamton, zat now brings me to my main concern."

"Okay . . ." said Hamton carefully. He seemed to shrink a little at how intently Pepe was staring.

"Hamton, can I ask you to be completely honest with me?"

"Sure. . . ."

"Good. Now, I swear I will not tell anybody zis, including Fifi." He paused, then asked, "Hamton . . . what are your feelings towards Fifi? What is she in your eyes?"

It was Hamton's turn to feel surprised. His mouth, already quite dry, fell open in a gape. He lost the ability to blink and breathe and his mind seemed to stop working, making it impossible to speak.

"Hamton . . . please," Pepe implored softly.

Taking a deep breath, Hamton cleared his throat. Then, with his eyes on Pepe's gently folded hands, he began, hardly knowing where to begin.

* * *

When Hamton finished talking, he felt lighter by about a hundred pounds, even though he still had his pudgy pig belly.

Pepe looked at him with a fond smile.

"You are truly a fine Toon, Hamton," he praised. "Fifi is very fortunate, zhough she may not yet know it." At this, Pepe actually laughed. "Oh, my dearest pupil. She talks so often of love, like moi, yet we have hardly ever experienced it. My dear Fifi is beginning to understand zhese feelings, and I pray she will continue to let zem in. Hamton, can I count on you to help her?"

A bit taken a back, his face reddening slightly, Hamton responded, "I . . . I'll try."

Pepe nodded, clearly thankful. "Zat will be all, zen. You may go."

Standing up from his chair, Hamton glanced at the classroom's wall clock. It was five minutes until the next class started. His friends and the other students in Study Hall would be leaving the library around now.

He turned to walk out, but was stopped when Pepe called, "Oh, and one more theeng, Hamton."

"Yes?" he asked, turning around.

"Can you please stop by Fifi's home after school and deliver zhese notes?" Pepe reached behind his desk and held up a couple sheets of paper covered in hand writing. "I promised Fifi I would collect ze notes from her classes for today so she can study for ze Exams. I volunteered to go and deliver zem myself, but . . ." he smiled, "somehow, I theenk it will be much more meaningful if _you_ give zem to her."

Smiling, Hamton stepped forward and took the notes. "Sure, I'll be happy to."

Pepe then held out his hand to the pig. "Good man." Hamton took it, and together, he and Fifi's mentor shook hands.

"Fifi is a truly wonderful woman, Hamton," said Pepe warmly. "She deserves someone special. Someone who truly cares. And," he grinned, "I theenk zat she will find him very soon."

Feeling his face go red, Hamton replied. "Yeah . . . I hope she will too. . . ."

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


	33. Magazines and Melodies

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from _Tiny Toon Adventures,_ including characters, locations, references, or the Acme Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.**

 **Edited by my friend, Redtop1995. Many thanks.**

* * *

 **Chapter 33**

 _Magazines and Melodies_

 _~Dec. 16th~_

By the time 3:00 arrived and the last bell of the day rang, Hamton reached his locker sighing with relief. The remainder of the school day passed by like a crazed jumble, made no less maddening because of what Pepe asked Hamton to do. Every teacher had given their utmost to review and pound as much knowledge into their students as possible, as only End-of-Term Cartoon Exams could enforce.

Calculations was loaded with theoretical equations that stretched over every available inch of the chalkboard. Professor Granny, knowing better than anyone how tricky her subject was, humbly repeated tips and shortcuts over and over again to simplify the various math problems.

Destruction class was much more straightforward but no less difficult as the students had to dodge Professor Taz as he tornadoed around the usual overturned classroom, ripping — and in some cases, eating — everything in his path.

And then there was Mouse/Bird Chasing, where everyone rolled their eyes as Professor Sylvester blathered his "professional" methods on how to catch mice and birds, all of which the students knew hardly ever worked, given their teacher's poor track record.

After making sure his backpack held all the proper books for studying, Hamton reached into his locker and pulled out the stack of notes Pepe Le Pew had entrusted him in delivering to Fifi. Treating these with the utmost importance, Hamton gently fitted them into his already stuffed backpack and closed the zipper. It required a few jerks before it would shut all the way.

Closing their lockers, Hamton and his friends began pulling on their winter coats.

"Wow, Hamton," observed Plucky, impressed, tying his bow tie to his collar, completing his waiter's ensemble. "You're looking a lot better."

"I'm feeling pretty good, yeah," Hamton said truthfully.

"Aren't you nervous, though?" asked Buster. "I mean, are you sure seeing Fifi is a good idea, after . . . well, you know, everything yesterday?"

Hamton said nothing, pondering this uncomfortably.

"Of course it's a good idea," Babs insisted. "Pepe had the mind to ask Hamton to go and give Fifi her notes so she can study. He knows Hamton's the best man for the job, and besides —" Babs looked at Hamton "— you DO want to see Fifi, don't you?"

"Yeah . . . I do. . . ."

This wasn't a lie. Hamton really did want to see Fifi, and not just because he wanted to try and explain (without really telling her) the reason for his many reckless decisions. The school day had felt oddly incomplete without Fifi. The lack of her pink ribbon, her beautiful fluffy tail, and the occasional French phrase mixed with English left Hamton feeling empty. And may he be called a delusional fool if his friends didn't feel it too. Babs and Shirley had actually looked around in Destruction class for Fifi to make sure she was okay from Taz's wrath before remembering that she was at home sick. Even Plucky had stated off-handedly during their walks between classes that work tonight at the Country Club would be remarkably dull without Fifi to chat with during their breaks.

As school continued to empty, with the clopping of shoes and people going through the front doors, Hamton was reminded that he was supposed to meet up with Mary Melody. So, with his heavy backpack over his shoulders, he and Furrball nodded to each other and set off in different directions: Furrball, back down the school hall to help Pete with his cleaning, and Hamton outside into the cold afternoon. Both agreed to meet up later so they could go buy this week's groceries after their jobs were done.

Plucky headed off for work while Buster and Babs announced that they were off to the Mall again to help wrap presents. Hamton supposed that they, like him, were trying to raise some extra money too, though clearly not as much money as he was (thank goodness all around).

Shirley, however, accompanied Hamton as he headed for the Acme City Dump.

"I want to check on my gal pal, too," she responded, her usual calm tone a little downcast. "I'm afraid that the incense I, like, left her last night might not have agreed with her mojo. I never bothered to ask if Fifi was a 'Midnight Mist' kind of gal. . . ."

"Shirley I'm sure that had nothing to do with her headache," Hamton assured, heaving his backpack and gripping the straps with both hands. "If anything, it was probably me who —"

"Oh, stop feeling so guilty," Shirley said, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, Hamton, it's, like, downright depressing to see you look so blue. Bluer that Buster's fur or your overalls or some junk. Stop worrying, you're a real sweet guy with a real sweet heart. Every girl with eyes or a spirit can see that. And Fifi's real understanding, you know. She's not grouchy with you anymore. I bet you anything seeing you will help her feel better."

Hamton smiled gently. "Thanks, Shirley. Though, let's wait 'til we see her before you go putting any bets on the table."

"Fair enough," she said, rolling her eyes again, though this time in amusement. "Mondo good phrasing by the way."

As the two approached the block where the tall wooden fence stood, Hamton asked, "So . . . uh . . . what are your plans for this evening, besides studying, I mean?"

Hamton felt a little stupid at this attempt at small talk. It occurred to him that he and Shirley had hardly ever been alone before, yet it seemed ridiculous that he would feel awkward talking to her.

Shirley, however, talked to him as normally as she always did, giving her bloated school bag a pat. In answer to his question, she replied, "Oh, yeah, some studying is, like, definitely on the schedule. But before that, I think I'll go and have some fun down at the City Park."

"The Park?" asked Hamton, curious.

"Yeah. They're having a snowman building contest down by the pond. You know, in spirit of the season and some junk. They're even offering a little money to the top three snowmen, or snowwomen, mind you. Gotta keep these things gender friendly, you know."

"That's nice," said Hamton, shifting the straps on his backpack to try and loosen the numbing weight. "Is that something new the city's putting on?"

"Yeah, it is. Someone got the idea because of a mondo cool Parson Brown snowman someone built a couple days ago. And now that I, like, mention it," Shirley looked up curiously, "we've been seeing those snowmen all around Acme Acres for the past few weeks now. . . ."

Hamton smirked. He remembered seeing such a snowman when he and Fifi went to the Park last Saturday.

"Should be fun, though" said Shirley off-handedly. "I'm pretty good with art and crafts, so I think I have a chance."

Hamton smirked again at another memory. "Didn't you once make an animated video that was a couple hours long?"

Hamton, fearing he might've insulted Shirley, winced at his stupidity for not thinking ahead. But to his relief, the white loon chuckled. "Yeah," she admitted, "I did overdo it a little that one time. But..." Shirley smirked in Hamton's direction, "you're kind of overdoing it too, Hamton. You know, all this work for a little bottle of perfume?"

Hamton humbly replied, "Touché."

"Still," Shirley said, giving him a light punch on the arm, "gotta admire your spirit. Seriously, Hamton. Your spirit's an amazing thing."

He blushed. "Thanks, Shirley. I think your spirit is amazing, too."

 _A little nutty at times_ , he thought, _but yes. Really something amazing_.

When Hamton and Shirley arrived at the Dump and approached Fifi's Cadillac, the windows were smudged with white, most likely from the accumulation of frost and wind-blown snow. Hamton couldn't even see his reflection in the glass.

Thankful to take off his backpack, which he swore was starting to make dents in his shoulder blades, Hamton set it down on the snow and pulled out the school notes he was asked to give Fifi. He was about to knock on the door when, stopping in mid-knock, he spotted something to the left.

Fifi's bright pink mailbox was hanging open, and on the snowy ground there laid what looked like a magazine.

Shirley, who noticed Hamton's hesitation, looked over to the fallen mail. "Like, I'll get that."

She knelt down and picked up the magazine, brushing away the snow.

A single yellow envelope laid underneath in the magazine's imprint. Shirley picked it up, too, and walked back to Hamton.

"A little wet," she said, shaking the magazine and envelope as in an attempt to dry them. "But no biggie. I think Fifi will still be able...to..."

Shirley's casual expression melted. She was eyeing the magazine as though she were looking at a picture of someone naked.

"Shirley?" asked Hamton. "You okay?"

Her discomposed face still set, her blue eyes shifted from the magazine to Hamton.

"Shirley?" he repeated. "What are you —"

But he finally caught a glimpse of the magazine and saw why Shirley looked so awkward.

Something in Hamton's mind, something from a dream he'd rather forget, seemed to have materialized into reality, and he didn't like it one little bit.

The cover of the magazine was captioned with the title:

DREAM DATE: Skunk Edition – DEC.

The sides were captioned with small messages:

 **- _Johnny Pew's new flick and hot chick_**

 _ **-Top 10 Skunk Athletes of the Year**_

 _ **-From Holding Your Nose to Holding Your Hand: How Du Coeur saved a skunk's relationship**_

And, smack dab on the cover, was a photo of a very handsome male skunk, dressed in a black leather jacket, staring out at Hamton with a cool, suave face.

The cold winter air seemed to shoot down into Hamton's stomach. Here it was again: a reminder of what Fifi really wanted above all else, and there he, Hamton was, being reminded of how he will never match the image that stared back at him.

He groaned irritably. What did Fifi see in these guys, anyway? The skunk on the cover looked like an outright sleaze-ball with his stupid smug grin and that lazy stare.

"Hey, like, come on, Hamton," Shirley said kindly. "It doesn't mean anything. You know that Fifi likes romance. She probably just reads it for inspiration."

A part of Hamton could tell that Shirley didn't fully believe what she was saying, but, nevertheless, he appreciated her attempt to try and brighten the mood.

"Plus, if you don't already know," she added, "Dream Date is totally blasé. They have one for ducks, rabbits, humans — like, everyone. I used to glance them a couple times before me and Plucky became an official thing. Like, looking back, I remember a lot of its stuff being soppy and —"

The Cadillac door creaked opened. Hamton jerked around and Shirley stopped talking at once.

"Who is zhere?" Fifi stepped out onto the Dump's snow-covered ground, dressed in a light blue night robe, rubbing her face. When she caught sight of Hamton and Shirley, her tired expression instantly became more awake and happier. "Ah, bonjour!"

Hamton was delighted to see Fifi looking and sounding well, even though a part of him still felt inadequate from the magazine cover. Remembering why he came here, Hamton held out the stack of written class notes.

"Hey, Fifi," he said quickly. "Pepe asked me to give these to you."

"Oh, merci!" said Fifi happily, taking the notes. "Pepe told me he would get zem to me."

"Heh . . ." he smiled weakly. "It was no problem."

Hamton couldn't help but smile. Happiness flowed through him like a warm breeze. The fact that Fifi wasn't scowling or tearing up at the sight of him was almost as good as a hug. His friends had been right; she wasn't angry at him anymore. Thank goodness.

"How was school?" Fifi asked. She sounded happy having someone to talk to after what must've been a long, boring day.

"Eh, nothing exciting," Shirley said with a shrug. "You didn't miss much. Just more studying and some junk. I swear, though, I don't think we, like, need any more reviews in Destruction class. Just gotta stay clear of Taz's jaws and avoid about forty falling anvils. Plucky's doing better, but still getting flattened at the end. Can never see that last crusher coming for some reason. What about you, girlfriend? Like, how was your day away?"

"Oh, it was easy. A leettle boring, to be truthful. I slept most of ze morning, zen at Noon I studied over a bowl of hot soup. Zen I laid down for another nap and woke when I heard you two talking."

"Sorry," said Hamton guiltily. "We didn't know you were —."

"Hamton, it is all right," said Fifi kindly. "I am doing much better now. I still have a leettle pang in my head, but nothing terrible. I am quite well now."

Another wave of a relief flowed over Hamton. Maybe Fifi's headache hadn't been his fault after all. . . .

"Oh, Fifi!" cried Shirley, suddenly remembering something. "We have your mail. Sorry it's a little damp. It was, like, lying on the ground."

Fifi groaned with annoyance. "I have got to get zat mailbox replaced. Ze lid's hinge is far too loose."

Shirley placed the yellow envelope onto the magazine's front cover, overtop the handsome skunk's face, and handed them to Fifi. When she took them to add to her stack of study material, Hamton caught sight of the magazine's back cover. His stomach turned over in discomfort as though he had just swallowed an ice cube.

The back cover was an advertisement: its colors consisting mainly of black, purple, and white. Three things stood out: the elegant white writing which included the product's name; a photo of a man's hand holding a woman's hand, a bright, sparkling diamond ring on her ring finger; and, most prominent of all, the thing the man and woman's linked hands were holding.

A purple, heart-shaped bottle with a golden cap.

 _For this Holiday, nothing says love like a gift From the Heart_

 _Shamel proudly presents_

 _ **Du Coeur**_

 _Let your Love Show_

"Hamton?" asked Fifi, frowning. "Are you all right?"

Hamton's eyes shot from the back of the magazine to Fifi's face.

"What? Oh, yeah! I'm fine," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "I'm, uh, just remembering. I have to go meet with Mary Melody. I agreed to help her prepare for the Christmas Party on the 24th."

Regardless that this statement was perfectly sincere, Hamton couldn't help cringing at the fact that he was also making an excuse to leave.

"Oh," Fifi said simply. "Okay. Well . . . I guess you better go zen. . . ."

"Yeah . . ."

They stood there, staring at each other, neither angry nor happy. It had gone so quiet, Hamton could've sworn she heard Shirley's eyes moving between him and Fifi in nervous anticipation.

"Yeah . . ." Hamton repeated.

"Oui . . ." said Fifi quietly.

Hamton wasted no more time feeling awkward and began to move away, the images of the handsome skunk and the beautiful perfume bottle still in his mind's eye. His insides seemed to be shrinking, his heart feeling hollow.

"Hamton, wait!" cried Fifi.

He stopped. Halfway across the Dump, he turned and looked back at the two girls, his heart beating more vigorously.

Fifi stepped forward a little. "I . . . I am sorry about yesterday — yesterday at school."

The sun brightened over the Dump and Hamton could tell that Fifi was being completely honest. His heart beat smoothly again. Fifi had just apologized to him.

Hamton had no words to give, only a smile — one that Fifi returned. And, in that wonderful moment of which they shared that friendly expression, Hamton knew that he and Fifi were back on good terms. She may not know or understand why he went and took work from someone as detestable as Monty, but she had accepted it, and wasn't going to hold it against him. He didn't have to explain himself. What more could he have asked for?

Finally, Hamton found some words to speak. "I'll see you both tomorrow!" he said, waving.

"See you zen, Hamton!" cried Fifi, waving back.

"Like, adios!" called Shirley, waving also.

"Thanks! Good luck with your snowman building, Shirley!"

With tidings of comfort and joy swirling inside him, Hamton turned and continued toward the opening in the fence, fighting the urge to hop into the air and cry out in bliss. He felt like breaking into a number and singing _Happy Feet_ , praising the sky above. Fifi wasn't mad at him anymore!

But just as he reached the space where he and Fifi had almost slipped on the ice, Hamton nearly fell again, but not because of his eagerness or joy. Right at that moment, a savage growl erupted from behind.

"RRRRAAAAAGHH!"

Startled, Hamton jerked around in alarm towards the Cadillac. It had been Fifi who snarled. She was gripping the Dream Date magazine, staring viciously at the front cover, seething like a rabid dog with bared teeth.

Shirley backed away. Hamton couldn't blame her; Fifi looked truly frightening.

Hamton then watched as she yanked the front cover off the magazine, then proceeded to rip it up violently. First in halves, then quarters, then eighths, then sixteenths. She threw the pieces to the ground and began stomping on them as snow rose up like white dust. When Fifi finally vented all of her baffling rage, she stopped abruptly and winced in pain, her hand shooting to her head.

Shirley rushed to her side and began to whisper what looked like "Shh . . . calm girlfriend. Like, lose the bad mojo. . . ."

Shirley looked over to Hamton, and gave, to his surprise, both a weak smile and a shrug. However confused he was, Hamton took this as a sign that it was truly time to go.

As he walked in the direction of Mary Melody's house, past the businesses and over into the neighboring suburbs, Hamton smirked while marching with confidence. There were now several reasons to be overjoyed.

The first, and perhaps best, was that Fifi wasn't angry at him. This beautiful fact seemed to emit a ray of light that not even the sun could rival, making this cold winter day somehow warmer. Hamton walked on vigorously, sighing with bliss.

The second reason — Fifi being angry at the picture of the handsome skunk. Granted, it was confusing to see that sort of rage so unexpectedly. Maybe that skunk was someone Fifi found horrible. . . . But even though it was a little scary to see Fifi that angry, Hamton couldn't help but smirk at how she decimated the magazine's front cover.

Maybe Shirley was right. Maybe Fifi really did read Dream Date for more than just the handsome snapshots.

But at thinking this, Hamton's happy pace slowed down, not because he doubted this thought about Fifi, but for remembering the magazine's back cover, which Fifi will most certainly see, given how vibrant it was in appearance.

He let out a slow, quiet breath which lingered on the winter air.

Once again, Hamton was walking the cold, snowy path out of the city, carrying a backpack full of heavy books and notebooks, the weight of it and much, much more pressing down on his shoulders. . . .

* * *

When Hamton reached Mary's house, which wasn't that far from his own, he was feeling slightly confident. He reminded himself again how close he was to buying a bottle of Du Coeur, and that even if Fifi did notice the magazine's back cover or spend any real time adoring the perfume's romantic theme, he wasn't that far from making her hopes of having the bottle a reality.

How on earth he was going to raise the _rest_ of the money, however...well, he'll worry about that later.

Attentive and encouraged, Hamton knocked on the front door and removed his backpack, relieved to have it off his aching shoulders.

As he waited and massaged his back muscles, Hamton heard two voices from inside the house. Then there came footsteps which grew slightly in volume before stopping as the door opened to reveal a smiling girl in a Christmas sweater.

"Oh, hi, Hamton," Mary greeted. "Glad you could make it. Ready to help judge some music?"

"I'll do my best," said Hamton, grabbing his hefty backpack and stepping inside. "Remember though, I'm not exactly the most music savvy person. I mean, I like the tuba and can play it a little, but otherwise I'm no critic."

"Ah, you'll do fine," Mary replied as she lead him in, taking his coat and hanging it on the wall. "We just need feedback from a spectator and work from there — you know, see if any of us sound off or not in time with the others. We'll get started in a couple minutes. We're just waiting for Gogo, and he should be here any minute. You want some milk while we wait?"

"Sure, that'll be nice."

"Okay. Go and make yourself comfortable on the couch. I'll be right back."

She headed off down the hall and Hamton moved into the living room. It was clean, comfortable, and spacious, not that different from Hamton's own living room, minus the varying photographs and a highly polished, grand piano in the corner. There was also a beautifully bedecked Christmas tree, as well as a number of well-trimmed red and white poinsettias placed on end tables, the fireplace mantel, the coffee table, and atop the TV and piano.

Beside the piano, Mary had placed a drum set, and in front of that, a stack of dictionaries on which Little Sneezer the mouse was standing on, changing the reeds in his saxophone.

"Hi, Hamton!" he said in his usual chipper voice. "Ready to hear some holiday music? Huh? Huh?"

"I think so," said Hamton. "I just hope I can help you guys out enough. You looking forward to the school party?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I am. What about you? Huh? Huh? There's gonna be music, and food, and dancing, and gifts, and decorations —"

The little mouse went on listing the various activities (and repeating a few), which Hamton found adorable. Little Sneezer really was more than just a cute face — he was also cute in attitude.

Mary reentered the living room, holding a large glass of milk in one hand and a plate full of Christmas cookies in the other.

"Help yourself, Hamton," Mary said kindly.

Hamton took the glass and helped himself to a ginger snap.

"Homemade?" he asked, taking a bite of the sweet treat.

Mary, handing Sneezer a small block of fudge, replied with a bemused, "I wish. Nah, me and my folks bought them at the grocery store. I'm only so-so when it comes to baking. That cake I helped make back in Exploding Cakes was mostly Gogo's insane brilliance. Now the stuff you and Fifi made that day. . . ." she grinned. "Mmm, I can still taste it! You two really know your stuff!"

Hamton gave a modest chuckle. "Well..."

"Speaking of which, how are things with you two?"

Hamton froze while drinking his milk, causing him to choke a little. After clearing his throat and swallowing, he asked, "How are things going with _who_?" he asked, even though he knew perfectly well who Mary meant.

"You and Fifi," Mary clarified, taking a sugar cookie. "You two doing okay?"

"Yeah . . . why do you ask?" said Hamton, his throat feeling suddenly dry and taking another sip of milk.

"I heard that you and her had a little fight during lunch," said Mary, looking concerned. "What was it about?"

Though he would've much preferred avoiding this little bit of unpleasant history, especially with how he and Fifi just got back on good terms, Hamton briefly explained it to Mary, making sure not to bring up any incriminating details.

"Glad to hear you guys are doing better," Mary said once Hamton finished. "But what is it you're planning to buy Fifi for Christmas, Hamton? I mean, taking a job for five-hundred dollars must make it quite a gem."

Hamton was dearly thankful he never got around to telling Mary about the Du Coeur. At that precise moment, Hamton's hesitancy was stopped by a crackling sound coming from the fireplace.

A few tiny pebbles fell behind the grate and onto the syntenic logs, and a second later, down crashed Gogo, his face and body smeared with soot, a sack carried over his shoulder.

"Ho-Ho-Ho from Gogo the Do-Do-Do!" he cried merrily. From behind his back, he pulled out a feather-duster and dusted away the soot, leaving his face and person sparkling clean. "Now that I've _brushed_ myself off (RIM SHOT), let's rock and roll!"

Laying down his sack, Gogo caught sight of Hamton.

"Ahhh, hey, Pig-A," Gogo greeted. "How are you and old Furrball doing?"

"Fine," said Hamton, grabbing another cookie. "We're both well, Gogo."

"Furrball?" Mary said questioningly.

"Yeah," replied Gogo. "Him and Hamton came to Wackyland a couple weeks ago and helped deck the halls."

"Uh . . . literally or figuratively?" asked Mary, an eyebrow raised.

"Both!" Gogo chirped. "Anyway, Furrball's been digging it up as Hamton's roommate, at least until winter heads south."

Hamton stopped chewing and felt suddenly nervous. Neverminding how Gogo knew Furrball was staying with him, Hamton had never told anybody other than his closest friends, his parents, and Pepe about Furrball being a temporary roommate.

Slowly, his eyes turned towards Mary and Sneezer, who, as he half-expected, looked surprised to hear that Hamton was housing a homeless Toon.

A second later, they looked positively touched.

"That's such a sweet thing, Hamton," said Mary. "It's about time Furrball found himself some good lodging, even if it's only temporary."

"Thanks," said Hamton modestly, averting his eyes to the carpet.

There came a toot from Sneezer's saxophone.

"Really a nice thing to do, Hamton," he said. "Uh-huh, yep, sure is. Now, how about we play some music?"

"Good idea, Sneezer," said Mary. "Gotta prepare for the party. Hamton, how about you take a seat over there on the couch?"

Hamton did so, taking the tray of cookies and placing them and his glass of milk on the coffee table as he went.

"Hey, Gogo," said Mary, stepping up to her piano, "did you bring your guitar?"

"Yep! It's right here!" Gogo pulled open his sack and out popped a red guitar . . . which was floating in midair.

Hamton, Mary, and Sneezer stared in surprise as the guitar let off an electric lick, perhaps saying "Hello" in its musical tongue.

"Gogo, what is that?" asked Mary, a tad startled.

"Duh! My air guitar!"

Gogo, seated at the drum set, played a rim shot.

Mary, rolling her eyes, shook her head and said, "Okay, that's cool, I guess. Let's start off with 'Jingle Bell Rock'. Sneezer, you ready on the sax?"

"Ready, Mary," said the little mouse, giving a thumbs up.

"Gogo, are you...Gogo! What are THOSE?" she groaned in exasperation, looking at Gogo's drumsticks.

"Celery sticks!" he said, smiling. And indeed, Hamton saw they were indeed footlong, green celery sticks, proven by how Gogo took a loud, crunching bite from one.

Sighing, Mary said, "Just try to keep the insanity to a minimum, Gogo, please?"

Chewing, Gogo gave her a thumbs up.

"Thank you. Hamton, you ready?"

"I'll do my best," he told her again.

"That's all we can ask for. Okay, everyone. A one, a two, a one two three four..."

* * *

It was more entertaining than watching TV. Hamton spent a glorious hour listening to some very fine holiday music, all credit owed to the three fabulous musicians (and sentient instrument) in front of him as he sat comfortably on the couch, snaking on cookies.

Mary worked magic with the piano, the way her fingers moved smoothly up and down the black and white polished keys. Not only did she play with precision, but she was also able to sing _and_ stay on rhythm with each song.

Sneezer was mind-blowing on his saxophone, playing gently in "The Christmas Song" or energetically in "Run Run Rudolf." He had several solos throughout the practice, his most spectacular being in "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree". How he managed to play all these songs with such small mouse lungs was a mystery, though Hamton did notice he had to take a few deep breaths at the end of each song.

And even more amazing: not a sneeze to be had. Just a lot of nasal spray.

Gogo was . . . . well, how else could one put it? He was Gogo. His drum-playing was certainly good, though he often got a little carried away as though he literally couldn't control himself, often leaving Mary to remind him that they were training for a Holiday Party and not a rock rave. As for his 'drum sticks', after his celery was eaten, he switched to pretzel sticks, popsicle sticks, chopsticks, lipstick, and even matchsticks, though Mary immediately put her foot down on _this_ selection given the predictable outcome of what would happen should Gogo so much as scrape them across his drums or cymbals.

And of course, there was the air guitar. What more could be said? It did its job fine, floating over the band whenever it had a part to play, playing bass when needed, or else just bobbing its notched head in tune to the beat like an oddly-shaped metronome.

All in all, it was a fine performance. Any flaws Hamton noticed were mainly minor ones.

"Gogo," he said, "maybe play a little more gently? I don't think you need to hit the drum quite that hard on the last part."

"Sneezer, maybe taking a deep breath before the start of each song will help? Maybe even some deep breathing exercises before playing? Might help keep you from losing too much air. Shouldn't be too difficult, given how strong your lungs must be." Hamton was, of course, referring to Sneezer's hurricane-force sneezes, which made him add, "And be sure to take your allergy medication so you don't risk sneezing too much."

"Mary, maybe your opening was a little too fast on that last one? You know . . . just a suggestion."

Having never studied music very thoroughly (save a couple episodes on _Tiny Toons_ which he played the tuba for a couple scenes), Hamton didn't know whether his suggestions meddled with how the songs originally played or not. He was careful not to press his opinion too firmly, but again, he reminded himself that he was playing the part of spectator and was free to give his personal opinion. Mary stated this again when she insisted that he be completely honest with them, and thankfully nobody seemed irritated by his suggestions.

"To be totally honest," said Hamton, "you guys are great. I don't see any reason to worry, not with the way you're all playing."

"Thanks, Hamton," said Mary. "We have been practicing since Bugs told us about the party and want to give it our best."

"Ah, what good is it to worry?" asked Gogo, leaning back on his stool, twiddling his drum sticks. "We'll clear the dance floor, one way or another. But I still think we should add a little more variety."

He straightened up on his stool, reached behind his back, and pulled out a messy pile of sheet music.

"How 'bout this, guys?" he said, flipping through the papers. "'Merry Sniff-mas'. Or how about 'Oh, Christmas Cheese'? 'Deck the Walls, Stalls, and Waterfalls'? Or, if nothing else, 'Grandma got Run-'"

"GOGO!" Mary shouted, throwing down her arms.

The teenage girl and the world's biggest weirdo went into a kind of deep, but well-humored argument about using such strange parodies. Meanwhile, Sneezer placed down his saxophone and joined Hamton by the couch. He hoped onto the coffee table and took a bite out of a gingerbread man.

"So, Hamton," said Sneezer, with his mouth full. "You gonna bring anyone to the party? Huh? Huh?"

"Uh..." said Hamton. "I . . . I haven't thought about it much. I've been busy with other things."

"Oh," said Sneezer, shrugging and taking another bite of his gingerbread man. "How about Fifi? You know, the nice skunk girl with the very big fluffy tail?"

"Yes, Sneezer," said Hamton, blushing, "I know who Fifi is. She's one of my best friends, actually."

"But you want to be more than friends, don't you?"

Hamton gaped at him, marveled at how this little mouse was asking him questions about romance.

"It's okay," said Sneezer gently. "I won't tell no one. Nuh-uh. Nope. Not no one."

"Well..." Hamton murmured. "I would _like_ to be more than friends."

"You going to get her something good for the holidays?"

Hamton froze, his throat having gone dry again. He reached for his glass of milk to take a sip, but found that it was completely drained.

"Yeah . . ." Hamton answered nervously, clearing his voice and putting down the glass. "I'm trying to get her . . . something nice."

"Oooh! 'Nice' is always nice," cried Sneezer, stuffing the last of his gingerbread man into his mouth. Chewing, he added, "But, if nothing else work, Hamton..." He swallowed, "...chocolate is always good, too. Girls like chocolate, uh-huh, yep, yep they sure do!"

Hamton smirked lightly. "Thanks, Sneezer. I . . . I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

 _$378_

 _-$15_

 _(Furrball helping Pete clean)_

 _-$10_

 _(Music evaluation)_

 _ **$353 to go - 8 days until Dec. 24**_

* * *

 **All comments, positive or constructive, are welcome.**


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